


Clone Identity

by DarthKrande



Series: Heroes of circumstances [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Adventure, Clone Wars, Lightsabers, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4007038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthKrande/pseuds/DarthKrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small team is trying to make their way in the Universe: a few clones, two Jedi, and sometimes additional heroes like the old Bith pirate they stole for themselves from prison. Their story starts on Geonosis, it will end at the dark dawn of te Empire.</p><p>Chapter 1: „We, unexpected” - Battle of Geonosis and forming the group, told by CT-1833/71 Geel<br/>Chapter 2: "Other than the Republic" - with his brother badly injured, CT-4405/83 KirretRor faces the life that wasn't meant for cannon fodders<br/>Chapter 3: "Costs" - an example of how you pay for your brother's medical treatment, told by CT-1833/73 Geith.<br/>Chapter 4: Guest appearance of a canon clone character who was at the wrong place, wrong time, and now got on the wrong side of an angered Jedi<br/>----------<br/>Chapter 5: "Stronger" CT-4405/80 Roquewon re-unites with his team, then saves the day because he can</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Geel

I see the excited joy of my brothers, I feel it, I share it.... but surprise doesn’t hit me nearly as much as the others. General Master Yoda, head of the Jedi Council, has arrived to take the Grand Army to our first battle. It is a great event for us, and great honor, but this visit was not as unexpected as my brothers seem to think. We were created for this day, and finally it came.  
I settle in the left transparasteel turret bubble of the LAAT/i, my brothers board behind my back. During battle, the vessel is relatively vulnerable, so it is up to us, gunners, to defend the entire crew. If we are in a weapon’s firing range, then whatever it may be, it’s also in my or the other gunner’s firing range. The entire crew has to rely on us for protection, and until they’re deployed, we are the only troops with real firepower. The Kaminoans picked the ones with the best reflexes for this position – and our batch truly excels at that.  
The journey from Kamino to Geonosis is short, but it still feels like ages. We all focus on the fact that we are elites and professionals, and on our desire to give our best performance. The Venator exits hyperspace and I soon feel the familiar tremor of the LAAT/i as the vessel leaves the cruiser. A large, orange-brown planet’s sight fills my field of vision, and as we pass the asteroid belt, battle instincts take over us.  
Our first battle.  
*  
I look around, my armor’s ventilation filled with the orange dust. I jumped when the LAAT/i was shot down. I can’t tell how I could make it this far. The radio fills my head with static, the visor is blank, but I don’t need sight to know that my brothers in the transport are dead. I am only alive because the transparasteel bubble was far enough from the main engine that got the direct hit, and because I was already in the air when the bulk of the LAAT/i went. I take off my damaged helmet, and attempt to stand up. As I pull myself to scramble, I see the vessel’s still burning wreck on my right. And suddenly, with the certainty of my own eyesight, I’m also aware of the other survivor in there.  
I drag myself to my feet, and stumble closer. My entire body aches, but that is easily ignored as I’m still in the best shape from the entire crew. I look around: the advancing army’s gunships fly over my head, into the cloud of dust on the horizon. A rock-like Geonosian building’s wall is behind me, I only distantly hear the bombing on the other side.  
I make it to the burnt-out wreck. No armor could have protected my brothers from this explosion, not even the high-quality Katarns the commando units are given. They are dead, our fast reflexes weren’t quick enough to defend us. The horrible smell of burnt flesh wrings my nose: the reek of failure and guilt. These brothers died because I wasn’t careful enough.  
Half buried under the wreck, in the transparasteel bubble similar to mine, I spot some minor movement. The other gunner, now trapped between the composite-beam laser and the frontal half of the cockpit, is apparently alive and at least mostly conscious. As he sees me, he lifts up his right hand, pointing at the weapon’s dead bulk, asking me to try and pull it away from him. With that out of the way he would be able to climb out.  
I try and I fail. Best would be to open the bubble and drag him out from under the useless metal, but with half of the cockpit on him, it’s near impossible. The transparasteel is too strong, and I have nothing to cut it with. My brother in there needs medical help, but all I can do is to tap on the transparent surface and ask with hand signals if he can reach his painkillers and inject them on his own. As a reply, he slightly turns to his side, showing me his armor on which he already indicated the self-given medication. I rest my palm on the surface, trying to give some encouragement and support. I cannot hear him inside the bubble, my radio is gone, we have no better way to communicate but this meek reassurance.  
Suddenly I feel alone and helpless. I am here, trying to save my brother, the only survivor of my vessel, and there’s noone else in sight, only the cracking wall behind us, and the wreck of the LAAT/i which was shot down because we gunners weren’t good enough.  
I let out an uncontrolled cry for help. What do I expect? No radio connection. Noone to hear us. Whoever would pick us up will not return for maybe several hours. Perhaps the bugs would find us before them....  
But my brother needs help. He needs to get out of that unbreakable bubble trap, he needs to see a medic, preferably a well-programmed IM-6 like the one we had our own transport. Ours, along with the rest of the clone crew, was destroyed.  
Somebody, please help my brother. This time I don’t form words, I’m only talking to this cruel Existence. He is a survivor, I cannot leave him here. I cannot let my brother be killed.  
Droids march out from behind the wall roughly twenty meters away, but in a very odd way, as if they were backing away from something, and they don’t yet seem to notice us. I turn so that my trapped brother can see them. He slightly moves his head, says something, then realizes I cannot hear him so he simply gives an ‘all right’ signal. I wish I could share his optimism. We are about to be caught in some crossfire, unless the droids are running away from some arena beast that somebody foolishly set loose, in which case I would end up as monster feed.  
But no, somehow I feel that’s not the case. Whoever is (or are) chasing the droids, they are on our side.  
From the cover of the building, I only see a hand throwing a cylindrical piece of metal into the way of a droideka. I expect it to explode in some way, although the device is most certainly not a detonator. With that elaborate handle, it looks more like some utility tool. The droideka rolls past it and unfolds, opening fire at our unseen allies from inside an energy shield.  
I recognize the tool for what it is at the same time when the droideka does: when an elegant blade of pure blue light activates on it, and slices the robot from behind. As the shield deactivates, the lightsabre flies back to the Jedi’s hand.  
To say I’m impressed would be a great understatement. Perhaps ‘astonished’ doesn’t match, either.  
We’ve been told that the Jedi can pull many tricks with the Force that the average people of the universe cannot. Telekinesis, mind control, healing, just to name a few. But I have never heard about such an elegant way to slice a shielded droideka in half.  
I hear knocking on the transparasteel bubble, and my trapped brother signals for me to help him move the turret of the composite-beam laser. I see his point: the weapon is not connected to the LAAT/i’s main engine, so it might still operate. And my brother, although trapped on his side in the closed bubble and perhaps with an arm broken, still wants to join the fight. I assist him from the outside, and prepare my DC- 15S for combat. I hear strange, humming-like noises along with the footsteps of marching droids, but I cannot identify them yet.  
I can only guess that the droids on the other side of the wall are getting reinforcement against the two Jedi. What I see, however, are only the laser shots deflected by a blue and several green blades, and a steadily growing pile of destroyed droids on the ground. My small DC is not effective enough against the heavier battle droids, but it takes out the fragile ones and my brother, although in a lying position, takes out everything I cannot.  
We were created to fight, and we are doing just that. If a clone trooper is really worth twenty droids in battle, I think we live up to the expectations. I have a feeling that the Jedi on the other side of the wall are also cornered. I hope our efforts add up somehow to their survival....  
A super battle droid’s shot takes out the composite beam’s generator, ending our little moment of triumph. The weapon in my brother’s hands gives out, and the two of us are left with only my small riffle. He still cannot move from the bubble, and the super battle droid is marching towards us....  
Then I see a yellowish grey creature jump on the droid, one limb holding on to its built-in gun as two other hands grab its dark shoulders. Green blades activate, one of them slices off the gun with ease, another burns the metal through, down to the red sensor on the droid’s chest. The robot freezes in its position, the Jedi on it is now deflecting the farther robots’ fire with no less than four separately moving green blades.  
I only have a moment to examine the Jedi. Six limbs, long neck: either a young Quermian, or an adult xexto. I move aside from my brother to get a better aim at the approaching battle droids, and I only see her head from the corner of my left eye. The cranium is tipped rather than rounded. Xexto, then.  
Before the Jedi would jump off the disabled droid to continue the fight elsewhere, she turns to me. I see appreciation in her purple eyes, and at the moment, that means more than an entire speech of laudation would.  
“Catch!” she says before leaving, and she throws a thin cylinder straight into my hand. The next moment she’s out of my sight.  
There is no time to ask questions. Both its ends seem dangerous, so I carefully hold the lightsabre parallel to my shoulders’ line before activating it. Brilliant green blade rises from one end with a soft humming, and it cuts the transparasteel with ease. When I’m done, I just open my palm with the lightsabre on it, and its rightful owner takes it back without even giving me opportunity to thank her. Finally I drag my wounded brother out from the bubble.  
Now that he’s free, we take up better positions at the wall and we fire continuously at the droids until the area is clear of them. Next to us stands an exhausted young humanoid in pale brown undertunic and impressive field boots. Her head is symmetrically decorated with small horns, and she has a thin braid twined on them, her eyes shine in a brilliant shade of orange. She must be the one with the blue lightsabre, the one who took out the droideka.  
“Now, would somebody please tell me what’s going on?” she demands, apparently not for the first time.  
“Both sides are following their politicians instead of some common sense” was the reply. I turned to the voice’s direction.  
It was the xexto Jedi, this time without the tornado of green lightsabre blades. She’s moving on the wall, swinging from edge to edge instead of walking on the ground. Her lightsabres, now connected into one piece, are attached to her back diagonally. Two other clonetroopers follow her.  
“So, let’s clear something” she says as she settles on a small rim on the wall. It’s more like a crack, really. “You belong to the so-called Army of the Republic? The one that was founded roughly fourteen hours ago?”  
Positive.  
“We were announced officially fourteen hours ago” one of the newcomer clones replies. Like me, he doesn’t appear to have any markings of rank or function.  
“But we were ordered by Master Jedi Syfo-Dyas” the other one adds.  
“Yes, I heard that story” the xexto Jedi says with an apparent grimace. “He had a few wild ideas he didn’t feel like getting approved of. But then....”  
She looks at us, then at me in particular. I can’t find a word for how she makes me feel: my doubts, my worries elliminate. I take the opportunity to thank her, she says welcome with a knowing smile. Then she glimpses at my fellow gunner.  
“My padawan will see to your ruptured shoulder soon” she promises.  
Padawan. I have never heard the word before, but of course we all know what it means. The xexto just confirmed that both of them are Jedi, she is the senior one, the humanoid (zabrak, I suppose, or maybe human-zabrak hybrid) is her apprentice. We are to follow their orders without question –only the entire Senate or the Supreme Chancellor outrank them.  
“I need to talk to Master Windu, we can’t leave before that. Do you have weapons?”  
The newcomers lift up their DC-15A heavy riffles. Those identify them as infantry troopers, like those who were on our LAAT/i before it was blown up. I give my relatively small DC-15S to my brother, whose own hand-weapon was left in the bubble, and I pick up the droideka’s cut-off arm. After setting a few wires straight, I get a blaster with acceptable aim and convenient firepower, although it’s not as easily triggered as the composite-beam laser I used before.  
“This way, then” the Jedi padawan sighs, activating her lightsabre. She charges after the retreating droids, and we follow her close. After yet another droideka’s demise, we also get to see a close-up of her eliminating a sonic blaster: she pulls the metal pieces apart on the containment sphere just the moment before the bug would fire at us. Her method appears easy and convenient for someone with such telekinetic power, and for a second I forget I have seen other Jedi killed in the arena with this type of weapon. I look around to find her master, but she’s gone again.  
*  
It’s only after half an hour and several dozens of battle droids that we finally reunite with the xexto Master. She is holding on to the hydraulic pole of a civilian spaceyacht’s ramp, with six other clones around her. The still-raging battle is now only a distant cloud on the horizon. I sense her weariness and disappointment with the turn of events, but at the same time she appears to be satisfied with us, and happy to see us all return to her without further injuries.  
“Come in” she greets us. “I know it’s just a Santhe Skipper and not nearly as big or fancy as those cruisers, but it’s homely and the storages are full with shuura syrup, naqrin cheese, muja-filled donuts, and if you want I can always make a few slices of peffi.”  
The mention of food steers our thoughts away from the battle our brothers are still engaged in....  
“There’s not much more the ten of you can do for the Republic right now” the zabrak (or half-zabrak, I’m still not sure) reminds us. “You need a rest, I need time to heal Geith’s shoulder.... I’m sorry, clone, do you mind if I call you Geith? It means ‘survivor’ in Meri. Your persistent firing reminded me of a Meri I met years ago.”  
“My name is CT-01833/73, general” my brother bows. “But I am overwhelmed and I will answer to that designation.”  
Now the Master Jedi speaks up.  
“If any of you wants to go back to the battle, now is the last chance. If you decide to come with the two of us, we would both be honored, and your continued assistance in this wermo situation would be highly appreciated. But you were raised as an army: if this team looks too small for you, and you decide to go back, I won’t keep you with us against your will.”  
We just stood there for a second. It wasn’t like we were often given a choice, unless it was a test and we had to tell the good option from the bad one. So which one is which, in this case? Should we go with the Jedi, or should we re-join with the main force of the Grand Army? Usually, this type of decision should have been made by a superior officer, but apparently, none of us holds any rank. So what?  
But then, it isn’t hard to decide. I am going to stay with my brother, the other survivor of the same transport, one from my batch, and trained along with me. And after just receiving a name from the zabrak Jedi, I highly doubt he would want to leave her. On Kamino, only the commandos and the drill sergeants had personal designations.  
“Whatever you have in mind for us, I will follow your command. Now and in the future, wherever you send me.”  
“Me too!” one of the newcomer clones decided. Two who arrived with him followed without hesitation.  
“It would be great honor. Yes, I’m coming!”  
“Can I just contact my platoon, and tell them not to wait for me?”  
Apparently, all ten of us chose to serve directly under the Jedi. Perhaps this is what we have been created for.  
*  
Roughly two hours later I’m done with removing the droid parts of my new-found gun. I still have no proper trigger on it, and we picked up enough weapons before take-off, but apparently our new generals don’t mind me keeping it. The padawan with those beautiful orange eyes that seem to glow almost like embers (Litne Zorrind, I heard her name) is still working on Geith’s shoulder, using the Force to heal the ruptured tissues and torn veins. Geith is conscious during the entire process, and he says it isn’t painful at all. Somehow I still don’t want to try it.  
“I noticed your moves were very geel” I hear from above my head. I look up: Master Kalibar Iz-Rese’Dh is hanging from the low ceiling, holding herself with only one arm, while the other five are folded around her thin torso. Like before, she’s wearing a dark brown robe, but her lightsabre is missing from her back. Wordlessly, I put the gun aside.  
“I’m sorry, master Jedi...?” She told us never to address a Jedi as ‘general’. That is a military rank, and Jedi have sworn to maintain peace even under unexpected circumstances: like, when they suddenly found out to have an army created for them.  
“Geel is an adjective in the Argazdan language” she explains. “It describes fluid, swift and composed motion, often used to describe the work of a surgeon in a appreciative manner. I’ve been watching you for a few minutes now, refitting that shooter. You work so geel, it was a pleasure to watch. I don’t think you have ever done this before, but you barely made a useless move.”  
“It’s like....” How shall I say it?  
“You know what to do without any intentional thinking directed at the repairs. Intuition. You seem to rely on it.”  
I nod. How should I explain her that it is the same as when I open fire at a target before it would actually show up in front of me? I tried to tell the Kaminoans, but they only called it quick reflexes when I knew it wasn’t the exact case. And to my batch, I didn’t need to explain. We all share this odd ability to a varying degree.  
Suddenly, I am sure she understands, even before I would have said one single word. If Jedi are capable of mind control, why wouldn’t she have telepathy?  
“In fact, most xextos and Quermians are telepaths, Jedi training only makes reading people easier. Also, your thoughts are very clear, geel, and your focus on me is steady.”  
As I understand, that was commendation. And an explanation of how she unexpectedly got there to the fallen LAAT/i: she picked up my desperate call for help, and came to our rescue. I’m overwhelmed.  
“You did well to call me” she says. “Which reminds me.... would you mind if I took your Midi-chlorian count?”  
I have no idea what a Midi-chlorian is, but I understand she wants me to extend my arm and let her prick it for a drop of blood. I barely feel the sting.  
Then she places the tiny needle into a razor-shaped device, and turns her head so that she can see the communication monitor on the far side of the spaceyacht’s room.  
“Midi-chlorians are microscopic cell components” she explains. “They have both intra-cellular symbiont attributes, and liquid crystal attributes. What I’m doing now, is compressing them to a more solid form so that the analyzer can detect them and calculate their number per blood cell. Otherwise they are undetectable.”  
In that moment, the display on the monitor changed from a yellowish ‘processing’ sign to ‘Estimation: 3800’.  
“And you said, your entire batch is like this?” she stares at me with her large, dark purple eyes.  
“We CT-01833 clones were a small batch” I tell shyly. “The end of the cell line. Prone to mutation, relatively far from the ideal genome set, likely to develop unexpected traits.”  
I have a strong impression she found one such trait to be very interesting, and I bet this wasn’t what the Kaminoans had in mind for us.  
To this, she nods happily.


	2. KirretRor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> „Other than the Republic”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter will tribute (and be narrated by) one of my characters. The first one was CT-1833/71 Geel’s, this one belongs to CT-4405/83 KirretRor.

“Cover me!”  
My finger is already on the trigger, I hear Litne’s lightsabre activate, and Geel’s droidarm-blaster takes out the first spider droid before the rest of us would even realize what had just happened. We were supposed to be sneaking quietly across the mountains of this uncharted planet, and take out the Commerce Guild’s stronghold in a surprise attack. But apparently we springed a sensor, and the dwarf spider droids caught us unprepared. And one of them blasted the rock from under my batch-brother’s feet.   
Roquewon is lying on a field of grey pebbles below us, with the dwarf spider droids closing in on him. I can’t hear him in the wind, but in my every cell I feel and share his pain. His plastoid armor could not protect him at the end of this fall, as he hit the solid ground with his butt. But even with his twisted hip and seemingly lifeless legs, he struggles to sit up and grab his DC-15A, but the weapon is just as broken as he is. He’s still trying to fight the DSDs, not because he would appear to have too much to loose, but we are troopers and if we have to die, we’d rather do so with weapon in the hands.  
I spot his Armat riffle a few meters further from him.   
“Master Kalibi! His gun!”  
That’s enough. She is a telepath and I know what exactly I’m asking of her. I only see a wave of her middle right hand as she’s climbing down the slope, and the Armat flies right into ‘80’s hand. My batch-brother forgets about his pain for a moment, and opens fire at the dwarf spider droids. But as soon as he’s done with those in his range, he collapses back on the rocks. The xexto Master Jedi arrives, and removes his helmet before she would get to providing first aid.   
His face, I can see it clearly from up here, speaks volumes of his agony.  
She knows where we keep the painkillers we carry with ourselves, but her search through Roquewon’s pack is in vain: the syringes must have shattered too when he hit the rocky ground. Not wasting more time, she places one hand on my brother’s forehead, two others on his chest. We, no longer bothering to stay hidden, destroy all the DSD-1 droids in our reach. Their reinforcement just left the stronghold we had been approaching, so those have to climb a very narrow path where Geith and Lohol take them out one at a time.   
Next to me, Geel reaches for his own medpack, then he lifts up the painkiller as if showing it to our Master Jedi. Xextos are telepaths by nature, but the bond between Geel and Master Kalibi is just beyond any explanation. In roughly two seconds, the medicine is down in the Jedi’s hand, and she relieves my brother from at least some of the pain. All we can do is to provide covering fire, so that she can focus on ‘80.   
Suddenly she looks up at us, and activates her lightsabre. She refuses to use radio unless when she’s talking to another Jedi, but as a coping mechanism we worked out a system of visual signals. She points at Lohol, then in the direction of our old Santhe spaceyacht. Lohol makes a quick salute with his DC-15A, and disappears between the rocks. His former position at the valley’s entrance is left to Konnek to hold. A circle with the tip of Master Kalibi’s green blade, a vertical flash of light, and a signal towards Litne together mean she wants us to follow her padawan and proceed with the mission.   
“Come, we’d better hurry!” the zabrak Jedi tells us. “The original plan is screwed. Konnek, do you think knocking the tower out would distract the Guild’s communication enough for the droids to lose contact?”  
“Whatever we do, we have to make sure they’ve seen us, or else they will blame it on their miners” my wider family replies. I look around, this time, past my fallen brother and the droids we have just destroyed. I find it hard to believe there are actual miners in these vast mountains, but I have learned to trust the Jedi. The Type I atmosphere provides for developed lifeforms, and the spider droids were originally used for keeping workforce intimidated. Still, we haven’t seen any proof of their presence so far.  
Part of me wants to blow up the Separatist fortress, no, the entire Confederation. But the other part just wants to hurry down to Roquewon, to provide some support, to be there with him when he dies. Jedi are capable of healing on an amazing level, but even they cannot prevent the inevitable. On the Geonosis, our little team was formed with ten clones, now, five months later, we are down to seven. Roquewon will be our fourth casualty. I score a direct hit on a super battle droid’s optic sensor. I do what I can, the only thing I’ve been properly trained to do, knowing this will do nothing to save my brother. From the corner of my visor, I see Itket, my only remaining batch-brother, rushing forward to a cliff from where he can fire at the giantic OG-9 homing spider walker, and soon he takes out the upper laser. In understand his rage: one of these metallic monstrosities slaughtered most of our platoon. When the OG-9 turns its low-placed turret upwards, in Itket’s direction, I know it must have target-locked on my only surviving brother.   
But Litne is quicker.  
“Geel, Geith, NOW!”  
The two gunners’ blasts the ground under the spider’s closest leg-columns, and its centre of gravity was already high thanks to CT-4405/77’s venture. The zabrak padawan, like usually, makes her use of the Force to appear easy, natural, and simple. I have never heard of any other Jedi turning a droid of this size upside-down, much less in such a fluid, may I say, convenient style.   
The biggest threat is down, we advance as if only five clones and one Jedi would be our default squad size. I try to glimpse back at my dying brother, but the rocky hillside covers him from me.   
Crashing the communication tower and blowing up the fuel resources was not the original plan. We should have taken a vantage point and lured the rest of the droids out from the mines deep in the hills, so that the wage-slaves of the Guild could have turned against their employing company and the Separatists would have one less planet to mine metal from. Instead we just cause some mayhem and rampage the most important facility. Our havoc and the subsequent delay in production is only a minor annoyance for the CIS, but Litne assures us that Master Jedi Arligan Zey will make sure to send another team to finish the job before the Seps would rebuild their fortress. With the main communication tower down, our commando squads would be able to land closer and they won’t have to hike the entire mountain range like we had to. Somewhere behind us, Lohol is piloting the Santhe yacht to where Roquewon has fallen. We follow the echoes of the engines to my brother and to our commanding Jedi.  
I arrive back just in time to see our IM-6 medical droid print a glowing red X symbol on Roquewon’s white (and somehow, unbroken) shoulder plate. The certainty hits me like a very cold fist on my throat. Triage X. He’s too badly wounded to even attempt saving him.   
But that’s not what you tell a Jedi who has lost three troopers already. She promptly grabs the medic by one repulsorlift, and repeatedly orders it to “give that medication, beesga junkie, because we don’t have time for arguing.”  
Lohol lands the Santhe in the now quiet valley, and he hurries to help ‘80 on a stretcher, but Master Kalibi immediately orders him otherwise. She takes a tiny black ring from between her connected lightsabres, and pushes it into Lohol’s palm.  
“Here are the a pre-calculated jump coordinates to Chersen. Upload it, we need to get going faster than possible.”  
“And what of the miners whom the Commerce Guild keeps as labour?” Litne asks. “Not that they couldn’t have stood up for themselves, once the entire defence was on us...”  
“That exactly” Master Kalibi nods. “We’re talking about miners, not unsheltered children. If they’re counting on us to do everything for them, then I’m sorry, I will priorize saving the clone who was with me on Peragus, Thila, and Dorin. And if any politician starts asking questions, well... they had better not!”   
Litne doesn’t argue with her. The two of them lift Roquewon’s broken frame on a repulsor stretcher. My brother doesn’t scream like most would with this grade of injury, but some quiet whimper still escapes him. I would give him my dose of painkillers, but Itket was quicker than me and Master Kalibi says I shouldn’t add even more of it just yet if I want him to survive. It’s a horrible feeling not to be able to help my batch-brother.   
None of us speaks for a long while. No chatter about the status of the war, no clever guesses of what type of conflict we would be involved in next time. No teasing each other about cowardice or clumsiness, no asking our Jedi about minuscule details we didn’t understand. Litne is focusing on keeping Roquewon relatively comfortable while Master Kalibi is tending to the fragmented hip region and sometimes argues with the medical droid. We have no idea how, but she is aware of the extent of my batch-brother’s injury, and we all know things have turned even worse when she suddenly orders the IM-6 to apply a new dose of antibiotics and a liquid that’s for slowing down gastrointestinal motility.   
“One more minute to jump!” Lohol informs us. He isn’t any more of a pilot than we are, but he has some experience with this spaceyacht and Litne is currently preoccupied.   
“Heard you!” Kalibi acknowledges, and straps herself to the stretcher. “More antibiotics, I said! What’s wrong, I-Am-Scrap?”  
“My problem is the lack of a point in this case” the hovering robot replies. “If I empty my Baratee reserves into him, I won’t have any with me when I’ll see a patient who could actually benefit from the treatment. Whose life would actually depend on it.”  
My batch-brother weakly mutters “The droid has a point.”   
“It’s much easier to replace a flask of Baratee” Litne hisses “than to tidy up an entire peritoneum if Roquewon’s gut content spreads past the cut. No real doctor is interested in the five jukko slices he had for dinner yesterday. Any questions?”  
“What cut?” I ask. As far as I can tell, his pelvic bones and some ribs are broken, I can’t see a cut.  
“Have you ever seen a shattered bone’s edge?” Kalibi asks back. I nod. Of course, none of us is a field medic, but we’ve been taught what we can use as weapon in an emergency, and broken animal bones were on that list. I suppose it’s the same.  
“It’s like small blades” I nod. “Or shrapnels.”  
“Roquie now has several such shrapnels where his hips used to be. Imagine what those have already done to his blood vessels.” Litne looks up, then turns back to my brother. “Worry not, Roquewon, we’re here with you. How do you feel?”  
“Fading....” he says, and I’m sure that’s not because of the painkillers. On the other hand, he’s about to die while looking into Litne’s gorgeous orange eyes...  
“Stay with us, Roquie. As soon as we’re in hyperspace, our good tinnie medic will conduct a transfusion.”  
The IM-6 believes that donating blood is pointless when there are several sliced arteries and profuse inner bleeding. Of course, the thing is just a droid, and it doesn’t understand how much worse it is for us to just stand idle.  
“My padawan said you will conduct a transfusion, so you will conduct a transfusion” Master Kalibi hisses. To me, she appears like a perfect Jedi, with all the Jedi ideals and not giving in to anger, but I suppose it takes quite a fragment of her focus not to lash out at the robot. She knows she can’t afford to throw a tantrum when she is currently keeping the bone-sharpnels from slicing more of my batch-brother’s organs. “Geel, you will be the first one to donate. Geith, you’re the second.”  
‘77 and I should be the first in the line, and Kalibi knows this, but unlike the droid, we do not argue. That’s the greatest difference between droids and us: an obedient clone will adapt to changes creatively, and accept new conditions without complaint. We would not point out faults of logic when our Jedi superior is perfectly aware of the odds, we just take the orders unquestioned. And we’re grateful to have Jedi to rely on and to trust them with our wounded brother’s life.   
\- - - - -  
“Those Khommites are looking for trouble again” Itket murmurs next to me, and I look up from my breakfast. I find Saelte 60 and Droees 49 insulting a big-mouthed Chandrilan politician two tables to my right, and I stand up to interfere without a second thought. I don’t mind pathetic insults from a species that declared itself as perfect as to cease their own evolution while they cannot even digest raw food. We’ve been trained not to react to harmless provocation. Also, Master Kalibi has told us to stay out of trouble as much as possible, especially because Chersen is not a Republic planet and it hasn’t been for the past five hundred years. Their world, their rules. But that guy is a representative in the Senate of the Republic, and that means we have to back him up if needed.   
Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean walking up to the politician’s table and beating them until they reconsider their mess-with list. There are always quiet, subtle ways, and our Jedi both seem to have a preference for those. I’m sure they would avoid direct contact in this situation.  
So I stand up, wait for a nanosec for them to see me standing, and then I turn around and walk away in the opposite direction. I can’t see them, but from the corner of my eye I can see my batch-brother, and he gives me a very reassuring nod. I walk to the fruit basket, and pick up the overripe muja Saelte 60 tried to convince me to eat only a few minutes ago. The two Khommites point at me and laughingly tell the Senator that I’m more eager to get myself some vitamins than to hurry to his help the way a Republic soldier would be expected to. I don’t comment on their lack of vision.  
“Maybe he is the wise one” the politician says behind my back, and I can hear it in his tone that he’d prefer to have this breakfast over with.   
Without visible haste, I march back to our table with the muja and start peeling it with a knife. It’s a sharp little tool, it could cut the Khommites’ delicate skin with ease, but the local rules strictly forbid one patient (or his relatives) to harm another patient. And these Khommites are recovering from a food poisoning, while the two of us stayed behind with Roquewon. This setting allows for no direct fighting, conflicts are to be left to the local security. With a sigh, I continue peeling the muja.  
I move the large fruit between my fingers, trying to find out why Saelte 60 suggested for me to eat it. The color is slightly off, the smell is a little unsettling. It feels like a ball of liquid under pressure.  
“I think its contents liquefy with rotting” Itket whispers to me.   
I nod, but he is the only one meant to see that. The two Khommites are under the impression that I will, in a matter of moments, cover my entire face with reeking muja juice, and thus, I anticipate their attention. Not that I would look in their direction, only ‘77 does. We work well as a team.   
I cut into the thick peel carefully. Judging by the sudden silence around our table, the Khommites are watching tensed. I focus on the memory of where those two are standing, and try to estimate the ideal angle.  
My marksmanship, my pride, please don’t fail me!   
I cut into the muja fruit, and squeeze it with my other hand at the same time.  
Two-toned cursing from behind my back informs me I scored a direct hit.   
I turn around with the most innocent face a trooper can manage. One Khommite is covered in rotten muja liquid from right ear to the middle of his neck, the other received most of the juice into his nose. The duo starts screaming about their destroyed clothes and ruined appearance, once they find their voice. Over their shoulders, I wink at the Chandrilan representative. Once the Khommites leave the room, he comes over to our table and congratulates.   
“No trouble, Senator.”  
I get myself another muja, and suppress a sigh while I’m peeling it. This interlude was the most eventful thing that happened to us in the past two weeks, and the complete lack of action is starting to get on my nerves.  
Master Kalibi has rushed us here to save Roquewon’s life, but then she’s left with the rest of the team and perhaps she won’t be back until our brother can walk again. As I’ve heard her say several times, there are no ‘good traits’ or ‘bad traits’ and this time our accelerated aging provides for double-speed healing. The doctors say ‘80 will be released by the end of next week. Until then, the two of us has to sit here, and do nothing unless another idiot starts messing with the senator. Not that I could be blasting droids with the knowledge that my batch-brother is kept in artificial coma on a planet that the Republic’s filthy upper-class uses as a money laundry.   
I have no idea how Master Kalibi has the funds to get a no-ranking clonetrooper the type of medical service only the civilian elite can afford, but apparently this wasn’t her first visit here. The origin of the healer staff might be of some clue, but neither of us are reconnaissance commandos to uncover why they’re helping us. All we have found out so far is that the ancestors of the doctors were all cloned from a Lorrdian on Kamino.   
Neelaer Pegquisse was a famed surgeon of his time, but he was overly irritable and could not get along with his co-workers whom he looked down and reportedly hated for ‘holding him back’. Eventually, he invested into a private clinic on the politically independent Chersen, and turned to the Kaminoans to provide him with the only colleagues he was willing to work with: practically, himself. Our mutual creators had altered his source material to create doctors who have perfect vision, even greater capacity for logical thinking, and resistance to most inhalable anesthetics. They made sure to alter the original DNA so radically that the medical staff they created does not successfully reproduce with Lorrdians. By this, they had thought to have forced the Pegquisse clan to become their eternal client.   
And this was where their Khommite colleagues entered the picture. For a considerable payment, they were willing to lend their own gene technology to the first generation of Pegquisse clones, who were, by their education, masters of medical science, theoretics of gene alteration included. They constructed a female version of the Pegquisse genome, and thus they created what we now know as the Chersani species. They have been breeding successfully for the past two centuries without any further assistance, much to the Kaminoans’ dismay.  
But that doesn’t explain why the Chersani treat our brother almost as their own. Both ‘77 and I are certain that somewhere payment is included, but as I said: we’re not recon troops. And our Jedi asked us to behave.  
I spend a lot of time reading. Litne gave us a data ring with the novels of a Jedi author, Daris Owelh. In this voluntary exile I’ve already read Mist of Time, Lightwalk, Knights in the mirror, Crystal and Sabre, and After the Last One. Owelh gives a lot of insight to the lives and morals of the Jedi, their philosophy, their history.... It’s really interesting how their Order and the Republic are intertwined. Until now I believed that serving under them for five months had taught me something, but the depths of their motives are fazettes I’m starting to understand just now. It pains me we had to learn Contingency Orders at the age we all should have been reading these: Owelh’s books teach everything what anyone serving the Republic needs to know. Especially Lightwalk.  
I tried to persuade ’77 to give at least that one a try, but he would rather just bask in the sun in the middle of a barren plain, or maybe watch some holo-series with some other patients in the main hall, by the fireplace. ‘Riddance and Regale in Ridiculous Regulations’ is his favorite show, it’s centered around two clawdites who travel to various worlds and aquire the shape of native lifeforms just to break some local rules that appear pointless to them. Then they usually have to morph into something small or scary to get away with the mess they started. For some reason, Itket finds this to be amusing, and he often told me in the past two weeks that Riddance should be invited aboard our small old yacht and see how he would set right Master Kalibi’s strict ban on trusting any transmitted information.   
I have to admit, that is one rule that would match neatly with the holo-show’s theme. It is completely pointless and it makes communication difficult, not to mention how confusing it was at the start. But she is the Jedi and we obey, because that’s what we’ve been created to do. If we have to rely on lightsabre signals instead of the helmet’s built-in radio, it is her choice. It’s not like our first three deaths had anything to do with communication failure, to be honest. And if one looks closely, Kalibi’s scar is still visible between her big purple eyes: that’s what she got during her padawan years when she fell for a holo message that seemingly came from her master. She had been lured into a trap, she could not save her mentor, she calls it a miracle that she made it out alive. Ever after, she always double-checks anything that could have been altered, and since we cannot use the Force for the same purpose, she prohibited us from following any instruction we didn’t receive in person.   
I admit, the clawdites could make a lot of fun of us, if they ever managed to fake being a clonetrooper. At the same time, I believe Litne would not remain in their debt for long.  
I switch my monitor to the medical data to check on my batch-brother’s readouts. Intestinal motility slowly climbing back to normal, perfusion optimal, the Moreau-plates almost 48% fused with his shattered bones. Above 75% he will be released from the bacta tank.   
I open up the last file on the data ring with ambiguous feelings. ‘...But we’re trying to be’ is Owelh’s last, shortest, and least popular novel. As I’ve heard, he attempted to explain the Sith Wars from a Jedi point of view, but he had failed with the historical accuracy. After this book’s horrible reception, he never published anything.  
Perhaps due to the lack of my knowledge, it’s easy to overlook minuscule faults in the plot. But our education included history of vessels and hand-held weapons, and he got those wrong on an irritating level. And what’s worse, several of the antagonist characters are implausible, stereotypical evil-doers. And how could anyone grow so blind with power that he doesn’t see the danger right in front of his eyes?   
I find myself checking on Roquewon after every tenth page, although his readouts are safe and stabile. And when I get through the book, I stare at the blank monitor with my mind echoing one question. WHY?   
Why did the Sith Wars truly end? Why did the Jedi try to alter the historical knowledge, why did Daris Owelh lie to his readers about fake heroism over demonified opponents? Did he intend to reflect on honor? How many of his other books were based on falsities?   
Why did he make me question his former works?  
Itket enters our room, and mockingly asks if I just read the death scene of my newest favorite character. I shake my head. How could I explain to someone who refuses to sit down and read anything he was not ordered to get himself through?   
“The Retlays are leaving tomorrow” my brother announces. “They insist on throwing a blowfire party, to which you are also invited.”  
Honestly, I don’t think I should be present for an elite Alderaanian family celebrating the results of their yearly checkup, but I’m aware they hate the two Khommite patients.   
“I will drop by” I murmur, stretching my limbs one after the other. If I will spend the evening there, I might as well look around in that area.  
The blowfire hole is in the back of the private hospital’s park, usually a quiet and rarely visited place. Most of its plants are imported from Ylesia, but deep under the surface lies the wasteyard of the Chersen hospital. Various machines separate organic matter from metal, and the latter is smelted down in the fire of the former. The heat is partially recycled to the clinic’s needs, but most of it is channeled to the far side of the Greater Echo Mountain Range, where tourists can bathe in warm artificial streams running through the alpine snow fields.   
I turn around, staring up at the peaks. We had passed several mountainous terrain simulations back on Kamino, and we have been to five or six vertical worlds with our Jedi, but these peaks are the most impressive I have ever seen. They don’t belong to the clinic, though, so we would need special permits to hike them, but their sheer sight moves something in me.   
My name means “Stone Dragon”. Skups called me so on a mission when I took a rear position and defended their colony while my brothers advanced. I didn’t move from my place, not even under heavy fire. This had greatly impressed them, and my tenacity had triggered theirs, and in the end the Chattza Rodians were trapped in the very site they had chosen for capturing the Skups.   
I see movement between the trees. It’s too far to identify, and without my helmet I cannot take a recording of it. Now that I’m looking in that direction, the intruder remains motionless, and I know better than to directly walk there and give a closer look. I’m unarmed, alone, and that thing was almost twice my size. So I pretend I didn’t notice him. I pretend not to hear the chersils chirping timidly instead of the loud yelling-like songs they engaged in a few moments before.   
The intruder doesn’t want to be seen, that’s clear. If I had cameras or at least a probe with me, I would leave them around, but I have no equipment and my two hands would be miserable weapons against this creature. All I can do is to retreat quietly, and re-check the perimeter from a safer distance.   
I sit down farther by the creek, facing the park’s trees, ready to jump if I have to. Nothing moves. A black and white chersil flies by, then two others in the opposite direction. I’m trying to read their moves the way Master Kalibi had taught us, and apparently they have not seen a predator in the near proximity. Yet another lands on a nearby branch, and whistles a small melody to me.   
Chersils are the most intelligent natives of this planet. They are believed to be non-sentient animals, flying around and building nests in the bushes, but in my opinion they are smart enough not to want more. They don’t chase big dreams of power and affluence, they don’t hoard treasures, they don’t get caught up in other species’ wars. Instead of all that, they enjoy a calm and free lifestyle. Either they are more intelligent than the so-called sentients I’ve met here, or I read far too many Jedi books.   
Still, because of the chersils’ refrained chirps, I’m sure I wasn’t just imagining the intruder. But what could I do? I suppose he is waiting for me to leave, so that he can continue whatever he intended to do. At the moment he doesn’t want me dead, or else he would have shown himself. That’s one great advantage of the clinic’s strict rules. If I would be found dead, my death would trigger a turmoil he obviously doesn’t want. That’s because, unlike the Republic at the moment, this place is not a war zone. Here, a clone’s death would be noticed.   
I leave, loudly, only to return quietlike a few minutes later. The trick doesn’t fool him, whoever he might be. Or maybe he’d left already when I wasn’t watching? I cannot tell.  
On my return, I find ‘77 chatting with one of the Chersani, and of what I catch, the topic was the Khommite hauteur’s incompatibility with overripe muja fruit. What could I say? Our aim is always true.  
“It will be fun to attend to the Retlay party as scare-Khomms” I murmur. “How are the two perfect idiots doing?”  
“They won’t be insulting anyone in the near future” the doctor replies. “Though I can’t say they didn’t have this coming, but....”  
“But?” Itket insists when Doctor Rael Pegquisse waves his hand. “ Noone expects you to heal them from their stupidity, and their messing with ’83 is their own fault.”  
“We were hoping to release them from the clinic in a few days. Now that Droees 49 inhaled the rotten muja and he appears to be developing a pneumonia, we are stuck with them for yet another week.”  
Ahm. I feel sorry for the doctor who had his hopes too high up until today morning.   
“I really need to learn to be more careful with fragile things...”  
Doctor Rael laughs and pats me on the shoulder like our drill sergeant used to.   
“You’re doing perfectly, KirretRor. By the time your brother will be up and running, you two will master being a civilian.”  
“I’m not sure that’s what he wanted to hear” ’77 snickers.   
“I’d be much happier if this war were over” Doctor Rael replies. “As a neutral clinic, we constantly face the possibility of our patients being murdered by the opposing party. Don’t get me wrong, I know you two are to be trusted, because Kalibi wouldn’t have let you stay here otherwise. I trust her. Who I don’t trust are the ten-fifteen patients leaving each day with the knowledge of who else are here in the clinic.”  
“You think they might send assassins on their enemies while they’re still under your care?” I might as well mention the movement I’ve witnessed in the park above the hospital’s incinerator.  
“We can’t keep our security up with a war of this scale.”  
I instinctively reach for my gun before realizing I don’t have it with me. ’77 sees the flinch of my hand and asks if I want to accompany him for his jogging.   
We need to keep in shape anyway, and maybe the two of us would spot something I ignored before.

\- - - - -  
The clinic’s main building consists of a central intensive care unit and the three surgery rooms, above which the medical staff’s private levels had been built. Most Chersani live here: although some of them have left the clinic for famous hospitals all around the galaxy, sooner or later they tend to return home, and they bring their newly gained knowledge with themselves.   
Four wings are arranged around the central structure: two for the clients, separated by the type of atmosphere they need; one for the staff, mostly mechanics and programmers; one for the laboratories. The landing platform is located between the methane wing and the oxygen wing, the two restaurants are next to each side of the patients’ wings. They have a separate building for those allergic to bacta, hermetically closed to make sure they would not get into contact with the material.   
We start our jogging around the oxygen-atmosphere wing, enjoying the fresh air and the afternoon sunshine. Back on Kamino we didn’t even realize we missed these so much. We march up the slope to the terrace of the restaurant, and as usual, we grab two packs of food to use as dead weight during training. We would later destroy these when we’re too exhausted, thirsty, and tired.   
There’s an old-looking (and as we both point out, severely modified) Corellian light freighter taking up most of the parking lot, and different size droids are unloading boxes of sterile medical tools and at least three tanks of Inhathin. My brother loudly comments on the soporific’s intense smell.  
“Do you now believe what Rael told us about it?” I mock him. “You said if the insulations are all tightened properly, nothing would seep out. You refused to believe Inhathin does seep regardless the storage method.” At least it is non-explosive, or so the good doctor informed us.  
“I take it back, OK? If the wind would be blowing in the other direction, we would now both be napping on the landing platform. I can’t understand how the Chersani can stand it.”  
“They have been genetically modified to be resistant” I remind ’77, but he seems incredulous. “Per Neelaer Pegquisse’s order. He needed surgeons who would not fall asleep during a surgery. Not to be effected in any way, to be precise.”  
“Yes, but how could it be possible to achieve? This thing is reeking worse than nerf guts!”  
“Ask the Kaminoans.”  
We leave it at that. The afternoon lights cover the entire building with bright golden gleam, so unlike the training grounds where we were brought up. We climb the outer structures of the methane wing, stare through the triple-layer windows, then descend on the other side.   
I take the lead from here. We’re not heading straight to the blowfire hole, I choose a longer route. The Greater Echo Mountains tower above us, colored golden by the play of lightwave frequencies. I check on the small service path that connects the clinic and the hiking hotel’s territory. It has not been used for several years.   
“What exactly are we looking for?”  
“Traces of a large creature” I reply. “He might have been brown, I’m not sure. He was moving quite comfortably among the trees, if he managed to hide from me.”  
“And the chersils didn’t mind his presence?”  
“Not like they would react to a predator” I reply. “But it was an invader, I’m sure.”  
We reach the blowfire hole: an artistically created exhaust port where the incinerator’s fire can be seen if the underground panels are retracted. As I’ve heard, these were constructed to allow baking, cooking, or just a general come-together when the nights turn colder.   
“Well, ’83, I think you’re not yet an observation specialist” my brother suddenly stops at a line of bushes. “I hate to point out, but he’s carnivorous, after all.”  
“What did you find?”  
“Wookiee hair. Dark brown wookiee hair, and it’s long enough to belong to an adult.”  
I scratch my head. And what was a wookiee doing out here? Kashyyyk is an inner rim world, allied to the Republic. This doesn’t make sense to me.  
“Maybe he’s hired by the Republic to hunt down a Separatist patient?”  
“If so, why wouldn’t he come the legal way? It’s not like he couldn’t find some wounds for himself if he wanted to make his appearance realistic.”  
“Because that would not make him suspicious at all....”  
“And what if he’s hired by the Seps? His planet is allied to the Republic, but he may not be allied to his world.”  
“That makes even less sense.”  
As we’re trudging through the park, ’77 suddenly stops not far from me. “There’s been some activity here... Look at all those broken branches.”  
No, I don’t.   
Instead, I’m looking at the well disguised trapdoor in front of my feet. Apparently, we found the back door of the clinic, and we’re too late. There’s a wookiee somewhere below us, and at this point I don’t care which side he is working for.  
“He could be undermining the Retlay’s party.”  
“Or maybe he went the other way.”  
Itket takes the deadweight in his hands, and gently places it on a barbeque-table near the blowfire hole. “I didn’t even get to see what has been packed for my dinner” he laments.   
Wordlessly, we split up. He is faster than I am, so he runs back to the clinic to contact the security forces there. I, the unarmed Stone Dragon, am left alone to find and perhaps neutralize a fully grown wookiee.   
I don’t calculate the odds for long. I have a brother to rely on while the enemy is a loner. I sneak down the trapdoor into the unlit corridor.   
Rails are the only thing I can see, running from the hospital to (I suppose) the incinerator. It must be for the automated transport of the to-be-destroyed waste, and in that case, I can only hope the drones have an automated braking mechanism that doesn’t require visual contact to identify an obstackle. Not for the first time, I miss my pure white armor’s visibility.   
Running in a pitch black tunnel with only the walls and rails to guide me is not fun. I regret every moment we wasted with Itket, but I could not pull him aside while he was talking with Roquewon’s physician. But the lack of incoming waste carriages suggests the wookiee had disabled transports for his own safety, which means he indeed came in this direction.   
The wall turns away from under my palm, and as I kneel down, I find two pairs of rails that join at this point. I suppose I’m under the clinic somewhere, with the medical wings on my left side, and the utilities on my right. I can feel some type of tremor from above, but I can’t tell what causes it.  
All of a sudden, bright light blinds me after the darkness, and I have just enough time to jump into the right side corridor before the transport drones would rally down towards the fire-hole. One, two, then five large containers are carried away on clanky wheels. In a top-notch private clinic, I honestly expected more than such historical automatons. Two more carriages rush down into the darkness where I came from. Apparently something had thwarted them until now. As soon as I’m sure there’s no more of these, I continue my pursuit in that direction.  
I realize just now how useful the air filters on our helmets really are. Medical waste products, and other organic matter that might have came out from the patients, reek horribly. I recognize the smell of a neglected, infected wound. One more transport rushes after the others, and here I have nowhere to hide from, so I have to jump on the front of it and climb to the top as it rolls with me. By the time I can jump down on the back of the vessel, I’m back to the ramification. I wasted roughly five minutes.  
I’m running in the maze of rubbish carriages, lit only by the drains above. My sole guide is the distant echo of something big marching in front of me.  
I hear a cursing roar when a door would not open to the decoder he is carrying. The lock is, however, soon manually ‘decoded’ by the sentient beast’s pure strength. Some very dim light comes in from above, and I can see his furry legs as he climbs up to the higher level. I carefully follow: we are in the service corridor system. By the smell, I suppose we’re not far from the kitchen and my stomach churns as I remember the foodpacks we left at the entrance.  
All of a sudden, the doors close around us. Either one of us triggered an alarm, or my brother did. The wookiee lets out a long, miserable howl, then tests his strength against one door after the other. I have to take cover in one of the empty waste carriages, and it turns out to be not quite as empty as I imagined it to be.   
I, CT-4405/83 KirretRor, Stone Dragon, hero of the Skup Homeworlds and assistant to Master Jedi Kalibar Iz Rese’Dh, am hiding in a large bin halfway filled with used urine pads, shed skin layers, fallen scales and broken talons, various drains and canulae dripping various liquids, and several piles of pus-sodden bandages. The closeness of the kitchen makes me wonder what our meal might have been made of. On Kamino at least what has been made of what, even if the reasons were sometimes shady. This carriage is suitable for me sitting unnoticed, so while the wookiee is trying to break free, I have plenty time recall our two Jedi’s comments on that.  
As far as it has been uncovered, a senior member of the Jedi Council named Sifo- Dyas decided to put the order for us, on behalf of the Jedi –council, but actually behind their backs. Having served under Master Kalibi for almost half a year, I think I understand why he decided to do so. When did he intend to enlighten his people about an army at their disposal, we will never find out. By the time our original host Jango Fett had been contracted to provide Mandalorian genome and knowledge for us, he had already been killed.   
I risk a sneak peak out from under the suppurate bandages, and find the wookiee to have halfway dislocated a doorwing. A blast door and its crosscut, the drill instructor’s words come back to me, though this is much thinner than the ones we learnt to get past with some thermal tape and a detonator.   
Before I would be noticed, I hide back into the carriage. Wookiees’ smell is keen, and if he would notice me locked up with him, this mission would be so over for me. So I hide back and try to ignore what I’m hiding in. Let’s just hope the Chersani are truly great doctors and no patient had died on them today.  
My mind wanders back to my team. The mystery surrounding us is one of Konnek’s favorite topics, the political aspects of the war being a close second. Where might he be now? Where is our squad, our Jedi and the four clones who departed Chersen as soon as Roquewon was out from his first surgery?  
It is odd how little I remember the entire regiment I grew up and trained with. We were the most average rank-and-file soldiers Kamino ever produced. Even Itket. Back then, Itket was the most average of us, never exceeding in anything. I at least have good stamina, high endurance, and (huh!) good tolerance for distractive circumstances. Most of these attributes I share with Roquewon. I don’t think my batchers would be different from us.... there’s just barely anything that could distinguish us from the others. Apart from a few unimportant digits in our designation, we were exactly the same.  
I wonder how and why ‘77 could change this much in a matter of months. With his agility, he would have been made a commando, perhaps even a reconnaissance trooper. His tendency to follow his own head puts him on par with the ARCs. Our two Jedi are lucky to have earned Itket’s loyalty before he developed his traits, and even more I am lucky to belong to this squad. Even if it means sitting in the rotting medical waste at the moment.   
Still, I wonder where the rest of my batch might be at the moment. 1138 members of the regiment survived Geonosis, most of them wounded. I think the combat-fit were re-assigned together with another halved unit immediately, and the wounded ones when they reached that stage of recovery. Perhaps they don’t even know we live. Perhaps they have forgotten us just like I forgot them. It might sound inhumane, but there’s nothing about us to remember. When we will die, it will only be a loss to the Republic Treasury. The only one well and truly interested in a clone’s survival is himself. And, of course, there needs to be someone to accomplish the mission, and dead troops are rarely able to do that.   
At least, that had been our opinion before Geonosis. After? Master Kalibi treats us like we each were some unrepeatable phenomenon, valued and worthy, just like the monomers of her six-piece lightsabre. As I heard her explain it once, every little part of her weapon differs from the others in some way. And whenever one has to be replaced, the balance of the entire construct would change. Their weapon is the allegory of a Jedi’s life, by the way: permanent damage to a lightsabre would always accompany and indicate some drastic change in their life.   
The wookiee pushes himself through the hatch of the door, so I climb out and follow him. Most of the brown fur he left behind now sticks into the materials on my clothes, but it’s my least concern at the moment.  
The biggest problem is, we are now in the medicine storage room and the wookiee is climbing up the cables to the ICU. At least he has not yet noticed me, and if he would even pick up my scent, it is properly suppressed by the materials transported through the tunnel he came through. Not quite the disguise I have always been dreaming about, though.  
Despite his uncivilized outlook (Am I the one talking?!) the beast seems to handle the clinic’s database with ease. Maybe he is looking for the exact location of his target. I see two large Czerka riffles on his back, and I notice silver tufts in his hair. Odd, I’ve never heard of a multi-colored wookiee before.   
I have no idea who his target is. Maybe if it’s the Khommites, I should just show him the way.... but with Separatist weapons he is more likely after a Republic target.   
I am irritatingly unarmed, all I have is a titanium scalpel I found in the debris. Quite the mock of a weapon against a full-size wookiee, but I will keep it with me until I find something better. Why couldn’t they discard a laser scalpel for me, at least? But I have never been the ungrateful one. I will fight with whatever I have, when it comes to fighting. With a miserable blade, if nothing else.  
Too easy for him, I suddenly realize as the wookiee turns to the methane wing. He takes a small mask out from a small bag I didn’t even notice under his fur, while I have to smuggle one from a medical assistant’s locker. And too bad I have no time to change clothes. Armor can be removed and put back up in a matter of seconds, but civilian clothes are not nearly as convenient.   
Too easy, my mind warns again. Trap-like. What did Itket and the clinic’s security organize behind my back, and what plan do they have for me in it? Did they evacuate the methane wing? Of course not, where would they take the patients. Where? To the bacta-free building, I suddenly remember. It is empty for now, and hermetically separated. Ideal.  
Just after cheering up at the hope of no civilians in the way, I catch voices from behind the wing’s wall. Evacuation is still in progress. The security personnel, of course, is on the other side of the airlocks. I also don’t like the locked doors all around us: it looks like a trap of a rather unprofessional kind.   
But if so, then where is my wookiee? It’s really embarrassing to have lost an entire wookiee.   
I go back until I find an open service tunnel that would run under the methane wing. It has been built to accommodate smaller cargo droids, of course the silver-tufted furball could press himself into it. Faint smell of Inhathin tells me that the wing gets the medical supplies the same way ours does. On our first day here, w have tracked down the tubes that keep Roquewon oxigenated and sedated in his bacta tank. This corridor is built just the same way as the one in the oxygen wing, even the angle of the corridor’s slope appears to be the same.  
A few lines of brown fur assure me: this is the right direction.   
The gravity of the situation hits me when I realize the goal of the hunter. Air and methane make an explosive mix, one well-placed explosive can blow up the entire hospital wing. What safer way to get rid of a target? Master Kalibi would chop us into luncheon meat if she would ever catch us doing it, but not because it weren’t an effective method. I realize I need to stop the wookiee before he would get out from this service path, or else he would detonate the building.   
From that moment of realization, it is a simple mission for me. I’ve been trained infantry, not commando, but having a clear objective makes all the difference. And we’re based off a bounty hunter, maybe he would do faster than me, but I will succeed, that’s a fact. I just need to find how.   
No way back, no time to get better weapons. The evacuation is still on the way in there, and I swear I can hear the wookiee roaring contentedly. I grab the scalpel, take a deep breath, and cut into the Inhathin tube. Purplish brown liquid spurts out, and although most of it evaporates immediately, I see the pool forming on the floor of the service corridor. A small river starts from it, and I smile under a grimace. No matter his breathing mask, the wookiee will not pass here.   
I start feeling the effects before I would take a breath from the soporific-filled air. Inhathin is safe and cannot be overdosed, I remind myself. I will have put the entire clinic to sleep, but I didn’t kill anyone.  
I hear a loud bang echoing in the tunnel, as a fur-covered body hits the ground. With my last breath I’m still holding, I let out a victorious dragon-roar.   
The Chersani are genetically modified to not be affected by Inhathin, I tell myself. They will find me and wa---


	3. Geith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter will tribute (and be narrated by) one of my characters. Here goes CT-1833/73 Geith’s story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Costs

I look up from my half of the bomb, and ‘71 immediately looks back at me.

“Any idea for the name, so far?”

“I still call it GEMP, for Gigantic ElectroMagnetic Pulse” he replies, and we both continue work without further talking. ’71 is my closest batch-brother: we’ve been together literally from the start, same lot, same training squad, same ship, same Larty. And same squad again.

“You two really save creativity for the important stuff” another clone, CT-8509/1701, comments behind my back. I don’t even look up from the half of the device’s shell.

“Mind your own business, Konnek” I murmur. At the same time, I feel sorry for him: unlike me, he is a loner. He had been separated from his batch, most of his brothers had been sent on to officer training. Why he was never chosen is quite obvious: once given the opportunity, he will start asking unwanted questions. He longs to know the reasons behind every decision, every command, even the habits of our superiors he has no business with. Luckily for him, our two Jedi seem to put up with him much better than the Kaminoans would have. His inquiry gives Litne a headache and he can wear Master Kalibi down in a matter of minutes, but they are far too polite to put him back in his place. Konnek seems to have taken this as encouragement.

“Is there anything I can help with?” Lohol asks, the other loner of the team. He is a typical infantry trooper: the Republic gave him an armor and a standard deece to shoot at the enemy, and that’s what he is supposed to do until he dies in the line of duty. And that’s what he will do, fight to the end, with the knowledge that he will be forgotten the moment he takes a direct hit, just the way his nameless brothers did. Not that a Larty gunner’s life would be any bit more valuable, I’m only alive because Master Kalibi and Litne were near when our vessel was shot.

And Roquewon is also alive only because they were around for him. Poor clone fell from a cliff when it had been gunned from under his feet, and he’s currently floating in bacta on some solitary planet beyond the Republic’s borders or trade lines. We dropped him and his two batchers at a clinic, and returned to duty with an additional task Litne only later told us about.

In short, the clinic’s chairman demanded two undamaged IG-100 MagnaGuard droids in exchange for CT-4405/80’s treatment, so as to increase their private institute’s security. Those constructs have never been available for commercial use, the Confederacy uses them to defend their best protected secret projects. And now we have to steal two of those.

It will be about as easy as the latest mission, I growl inwardly. Geel hisses back: he doesn’t appreciate my sarcasm.

Well, last mission became a complete nightmare. We went back to the moon where Roquewon got injured, hoping that, with weakened defenses and disabled communication, we could finish the task easily and free the miners whom the Commerce Guild was keeping not too unlike slavery. It should have been as easy as that.

Instead, we walked into a den of gundarks - literally. As it turned out, after we diminished most battle droids, the beasts broke into the Commerce Guild buildings, rampaged through the ore processing plants, and tore apart everyone who couldn’t get to the ships in time. Obviously, the Separatists didn’t bother to evacuate the miners. The survivors were stuck in the caves and mineshafts with no reserves, no means of communication, and token artillery to defend themselves. Suffice to say they weren’t exactly fond of us when we returned to “free” them. I killed twenty-one gundarks that night, our total killcount was seventy-two. But I will never be proud of taking part in a mission that caused fifty-five deaths from the semi-innocent civilian population we were meant to protect.

And the mission is not over yet. The miners are safe for now, so is Roquewon. But now it’s up to the four of us to capture two guard droids from the enemy to pay for an infantry trooper’s top-quality treatment: two gunners and two infantry troops – none of us are trained commandos. I don’t want to be the next casualty.... but I was created to take orders, and if Master Kalibi demands four of us to risk our lives to cover the costs of one clone’s surgeries, I don’t have the right to voice a second option.

“Narrow duct tape” is all I say, and “Here” is all my batch-brother replies. I position the last trigger wire, then start welding it to the shell. Then I repeat the process with the other shell. 1833/71 is fully aware of my misgiving, but he doesn’t comment on it. Neither does Master Kalibi, who is the mastermind of this insanity, and a telepath by birth. The only person whose opinion would actually matter to me, Litne Zorrind, doesn’t seem to be aware of my doubts. She has been meditating in the spire room ever since Geel and I started working on the GEMP bomb.

It will actually be a neat weapon, if we get to use it properly. Konnek found the blueprints in the archives of a public library, Litne got the needed parts and some tools we were missing, my batcher and I only had to make a few small modifications. But this thing will be quite a weapon. Kandosii, as the commando-trained would call it.

This pretty gadget could knock a planet of Coruscant’s size down without doing any visible damage, or without directly harming an organic creature. On some untouched world, it’s boom wouldn’t be noticed. In a civilized place, it could kill millions by bringing down vehicles, blocking essential communication, and disabling medical equipment. Some of those devices are somewhat shielded against regular EM pulses, but this one will be aimed at well-protected destroyer droids, so its direct magnitude has to be at least five hundred times stronger than what a regular shield can withhold.

We have yet to see a MagnaGuard’s production data, but they must come with EM sensors. They would shut down temporarily if they pick up the preliminary signals, which would minimize the pulse’s effect on them. To prevent such action, we will need to go close to both targeted droids. To be on the safe side, my batcher and I are building two of these bombs: one for us and one for the Jedi. If either team reaches a position from where both Magnas will be knocked out, they will use it. But the pulse is so strong, it will also render the other bomb useless.

That’s the plan. I never bothered to count my questions regarding it.

I focus on the present. I focus on my intuition, on the half-ready bombs in front of me. This has to go well. This is ought to go well, and it will. Because Master Kalibi had said so, and because Litne Zorrind had said so. Because this is the only way we can prove our ability to capture two MagnaGuards.

I re-route a circuit and I start constructing the outer trigger mechanism. I don’t follow the original sketches to the letter, as I’m not working on a replica, but on a weapon. Acting by the book would risk my own and my brothers’ lives, and I know Geel is also making small modifications on his halves, too.

In the other corner of the small yacht’s central room, Master Kalibi is sitting with her limbs symmetrically folded around her. Her eyes are closed, only the soft lurch of her neck indicates she’s actually meditating. She’s calling out a name, barely a whisper. Another Jedi, I suppose.

Suddenly, her eyes pop open, and she starts typing on a communicator that was placed in front of her. Soon another Jedi’s holographic figure appears on the floor. By the numerous head-tresses, I guess him to be a Nautolan.

“Thank you for your time, Kit. I trust you could help me find a Separatist base that would be our next target. Preferably an important one.”

He on the other side, grins.

“I thought you decided to ‘keep a safe distance from politics’, Kalibi. What has changed your mind?”

“I need a CIS stronghold or base where we might find at least two MagnaGuard type droids” our xexto continues, calmly. “I just need to find one such base, we will handle the rest.”

The Nautolan blinks. He appears quite confused to me. Master Kalibi closes her eyes, most likely expressing something through the Force instead of forming words. Geel looks up from his work, apparently he’s also picking up the xexto’s unusual communication.

“She cares about us” ’71 smiles. “You know, Geith, I can’t imagine how I could exist without Jedi.”

“Without her” I specify. My brother has grown a little addicted to the xexto. I remind him in vain that she’s not our brother, merely a superior. Even if she keeps us close.

In the other corner, the Nautolan she called ‘Kit’ is lost in his thoughts.

“You seem to need intelligence from the Special Forces” he says. “But I don’t know who is in charge of those for the moment. Maybe Master Yoda will be able to help.”

Master Kalibi thanks him, and starts the meditative communication over again. I can feel her presence, her aura and the thunder of her stirred emotions. Without paying attention, I can tell when she makes mental contact with the small green Jedi goblin, and she patiently waits until he walks to a communication consol. Before they would establish communication or exchange the first words, there’s already a swift flow of information between them. I can’t tell what they are talking about before they would start speaking, but I’m sure what I witness is Kalibi’s usual way of verifying incoming data.

Our xexto superior is circuitous about transmitted communication ever since her padawanhood. She fell for a trick because she felt some other Jedi’s distress in the Force, but she didn’t confirm if it was really him talking through the enemy’s inner com channel. As it turned out later, he wasn’t. Kalibi failed to recognize the trap, and she only survived because she got lucky. The other one died, and she spent a year arguing with herself whether she was still worthy of becoming a Jedi. She claims to have learnt the lesson, most of us believe she was simply traumatized by the mishap. Unlike her, we’ve been trained to accept being vulnerable.

“Master Yoda, thank you for your time.” She is sitting half awake, staring at the hologram with large purple eyes.

“Master Kalibi, troubled, you appear.”

“One of my clones is badly injured” she says, as if she needed to explain herself. “Kit told me you could help me find a Separatist base, which would be our next target.”

I look around. Am I the only one to notice, she didn’t explain the connection between the two lines? Geel takes the welder from my hand, and continues work while I wait to hear the tiny master’s reaction.

Master Yoda either sees through what has been told, or he can’t seem to mind it.

“Contact Arligan” he eventually says. “In charge of the Special Forces, he is. Find you a good Separatist base, I’m sure he will.” And the goblin giggles. “May the Force guide you, Master Kalibi.”

Despite my earlier mood, I can’t help being amused by the little one’s sense of humor. A good Separatist base is truly all we need, with a galactic civil war and 4405/80’s healing costs. Our xexto superior doesn’t take the answer (or the lack of one) patiently, however. Her patience with telecommunication is apparently running short.

Still halfway into meditation, Master Kalibi contacts an aging human Jedi next. At this point, our xexto is radiating impatience and frustration, which could turn into anger in any moment. The aging human general tells her to seek advice from his former padawan.

Geel wordlessly looks up, troubled by the xexto’s rapidly worsening mood: her frustration over not getting anywhere with these radio calls is palpable under the Jedi-calm surface. And if we can feel it, no doubt those others can sense it too.

I take the welder back from my batcher’s hand, he sobers and gets back to work. Our task is to build the two GEMP grenades, not to analize emotional changes of our superiors.

In the background, I hear a younger human promising to ask around, and to contact her as soon as he has the coordinates.

“You’re not being blackmailed into this, are you, master?” he asks just when I thought he would disappear from the ether. “I heard one of your troops is wounded. You’re not tricked into doing something stupid to save him, I trust?”

That was the exact definition of the situation, but Master Kalibi states otherwise.

“I’m certain Roquewon is safe and in the best hands.” I turn around to see the hologram of the human Jedi frown.

“Then?”

“An entire hip’s reconstruction comes at a cost, Bardan. Roquewon was injured in the line of duty serving the Republic, but all the help he received later was a note that he should be left to die. I had to find another way, and there was no time to evaluate the options. Just get me to a Separatist base with no other civilization around, and everything will be back to as fine as a civil war can be.”

I turn my focus back to the GEMP bomb, as it makes more sense at the moment than the six-limbed Master.

“I have a feeling all those Jedi didn’t like what she’s up to.”

“Have some faith, Geith” my batcher replies.

 

.

 

It took three days to reach the Separatist outpost, but we arrive just in time to see a Subjugator-class heavy cruiser enter hyperspace. Litne pilots our yacht to the surface, chatting in fluent Huttese with the surface flight controls. Formerly I doubted whether she could to talk us through CIS security, but she’s playing the role of a smuggler with true confidence. Her tattoo-less face is now covered in fake black patterns, in addition to her blue leather jacket. She sure as haran appears to be anything but Republic authority.

“I think she just told them we’re live fish delicacy for the Quarren dock workers” whispered Geel. “Something she’d commissioned on a thunderous world off the map.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear” Lohol murmurs back. “Here goes nothing but some treat that was grown on Kamino to be slaughtered.”

“We will be quite a chewy treat” Geel grins. “Hey, we will have one Jedi with us.”

ONE?

But there’s no time for further clarification, it’s time we switch to the armor suit’s built-in life support and hide in the crates labeled ‘only open before consumption’. Cargo droids unload us one by one, and even from inside I hear Litne saying a flirty good-bye to a Quarren port master. Then she guns the engines of our Santhe yacht and flies off, leaving us alone with her misguided master sharing a crate with Geel, me holding a modified Armat riffle and one of the GEMP bombs in another, Konnek in a third crate holding a comm gadget and a pair of smaller guns, and Lohol with the other bomb.

We’ve been trained to be good soldiers. Both I and my batcher here are gunners for a Larty, and as such we also went through basic infantry and tech support drill. And we know to sit quiet when we have to, even if we dislike the current situation or whatever to come next.

For over four hours, I do nothing but stare at the readings of my mostly offline HUD. It tells me I have air for ten more hours in the regular life support devices, and one additional bottle that can operate in analogue mode only. I wonder what sense that makes. Why did we not check the connection between the two systems? There’s no answer inside my crate. I try to reach out for my batcher, but his mind feels unexpectedly distant. If he isn’t asleep, then he must be meditating with our Jedi on his shoulder.

I keep trying. Either he’s dreaming or just concentrating hard, his thoughts circulate around the other twohundred clones of the CT-1833 batch. How many of us are still alive, and how many seeded the unseen stars already? Konnek has a very bad opinion about death as a hero, but I bet he’s the only one. Huli, Serk and the unnamed brother whom we lost since Geonosis, all three of them, were just as courageous as all the other millions of us, and they accepted the fact that we’re mortals, even though they loved to live.

We all have a strong drive for survival. That’s what keeps this army alive. That’s what guides our brothers through battlefields, through hostile terrain, through torrents of grenades and through tornadoes of missiles. That’s what makes the wounded crawl for cover, that’s what forces the unarmed to seek means of fighting again.

That’s what kept Roquewon from bleeding out on our way to Chersen.

That’s what keeps me silent in this cramped box for yet another hour.

I close my eyes, no longer interested in the blackness all around me. Litne, do you hear me? Are you aware of my thoughts returning to you every hour, day and night, ever since I joined you on Geonosis? Litne....

Jedi are far beyond anyone’s reach, but a clone can still dream. Will she feel it if this mission goes awry and I die? Would she shed a tear for me, now, or tomorrow? Or the day after? We were created to be replaceable. We were created never to be missed by anyone, not even by those who command us. I know my value. I only matter as long as I’m alive.

The Force connects everything in this galaxy to everything else. It keeps us together in existence, innumerable lives on billions of worlds. It penetrates the air, the ground, the weapons, brothers and foes, the crates, our armor, the Jedi’s lightsabres, even the space between us. It fills us with life through the intercellular symbionts she called Midi-chlorians. Each of these things, half crystal, half living, is a bond through which we make contact with the Force around us. As I reach out, I can sense what’s going on around me. Lohol is reading an old book file on his HUD, Konnek takes a nap. As I reach for Geel, he reaches back to me, assuring me of his faith in the two GEMPs we built together. We’ve been keeping this form of connection perhaps from production day one, in the vials, but only recently did we start doing so consciously. Since the Jedi told us the unplanned reason behind it. My Midi-chlorian count is 4200, my batcher’s is 3800. The two of us together would make out a less talented Jedi. Most of the 1833 batch is like us. That’s why we have good reflexes, that’s why we have been trusted with active defense of landing vessels when the lives of our brothers depend on our covering fire from gunners. And perhaps being a gunner is why I’m so concerned with my immediate surroundings, even when I can’t see outside my crate. I can feel other creatures around me for a while, and I suspect they’re the enemy even though they bear no grudge for me. Of course they don’t, because they don’t even know there’s a squad of seven no-ranking clones blessed with an impressive zabrak Jedi and with her stroppy xexto master, playing self-appointed commando on their base with only of our half numbers.

Before I could retreat from this looking-around, my distant brothers’ pain reaches me. Despair, sense of loss.... and echoing emptiness that follows it. I don’t need to be told what just happened. Something just wiped out those who made it this far in the war.

Geel sensed it too. So many of this small and glitched 1833 cell-line, at least half of those who made it this far, were just blown out of existence, perhaps with the single blow of a spaceship-sized weapon. How many were we once? Two hundred? Now we might as well be down to two.

I feel Kalibi soothingly holding Geel’s neck, comforting me and him at the same time.

I don’t feel the need for comfort. I’ve lost these brothers long ago, back when I chose to come with her and Litne, when I didn’t re-join the battalion after our LAAT/i’s demise.

The fading echoes still hurt me on a level I cannot point out. Survivor’s guilt?

I have to my batchers go. Brothers I was created with, vode, replacable and interchangable warriors who served our procurer just like those of the other cell-lines. I shed a tear for them but I cannot do more. We have all accepted this fate. We were created to accept it.

Suddenly it feels as if Master Kalibi would pat me on the shoulder.

“Now is the time.”

I push the crate’s top aside, then I stretch my limbs out. Weapons first: my modified Armat handgun. Two shots take out the storage room’s surveillance system before I would even step out. Where are we? Perhaps this is what Republic intelligence labeled as Level C storage room. It should be for replacement parts on the base. It should not have atmosphere.

Konnek gets out of his crate next to me, shoots down the prying security droids, looks around, then comes to the same conclusion as I did. Bad intel again.

“I hope this atmosphere doesn’t mean we have civilians who breathe this” he murmurs. “We will knock out the shield that keeps the air inside.”

“I wish we were at that point already.”

I hear a lightsabre activate in the distance. It’s a quiet buzz, but enough to guide us. In the past four months we’ve trained hard to work side by side with our Jedi, because nobody bothered to teach us _that_. We take the cue and the two of us slip towards the familiar noise.

Of course my batch-brother is already smashing his way through a squadron of battle droids, with our xexto Jedi holding on to him with two limbs like a loosely attached personal shield. So far so good. As long as Master Kalibi has all those green lightsabre blades reflecting the deadly shots, ’71 is safe in the middle of action. I mean, anyone can hold an LJ-50 concussion rifle, but swinging no less than six deadly blades of fine-focused green light truly takes a skilled warrior. My brother bursts one super battle droid after another with his self-built rotary blaster carbine. He’s been working on that thing ever since Geonosis, having pieced together six droideka cannons so far, and he says he has space for two more. Not that picking up souvenirs for ourselves would be allowed in the Grand Army, but our superiors agreed to it without hesitation. Litne told me Jedi are expected to construct their own lightsabres as part of their training, so building our own weapons is natural in their eyes. Besides, we mostly operate in the Outer Rim, and picking spare parts on a battlefield is a lot more convenient here than waiting for resources from the Core.

I slip from one shadow to another, taking down about forty droids with my Armat. Konnek takes the stairs to the turbolift and short-circuits its actuator. I hear a line of cursing from a few levels under us.

“What language could that be? You heard that?”

“You want a linguist with you, or would a protocol droid do just fine?” I’m not in the mood for subtleties with a dozen super battle droids coming my way. Certainly, the Armat is nowhere near as clumsy as a deece blaster, but it still needs attention and precise aim to finish a massive clanker. “Take cover Konnek, they’re too many to hold back alone!”

Konnek’s guns join mine in the business of blowing one tinnie after the other. His are not as heavy as mine, also less effective, but with proper aiming the two of them is almost as useful. We only have to defend a good position while those droids have to climb through the battle droids I blasted earlier. We will need to get past that same pile of junk too, if we are to get moving, but I focus on the droids in the present and leave worrying about the future for later.

There. We’ve nicely barricaded ourselves up here in the atmosphere-filled living area, with the elevator shorted out and the stairs blocked with smoking metal.

“Now you must have heard that cursing!”

“Aham.”

I only caught “fierfek” in it, that is a general curseword originating from the Hutt language, having spread through the entire galaxy except for the most snobbish or withdrawn quadrants.

“Well, I don’t recognize the language if that’s what you wanted to hear, ‘1701.”

“But it’s definitely not Quarren.”

So? Bad intel, we already knew this when we opened the crates and found breathable atmosphere outside. But I’m still unprepared for the sight of three sleepy Trandoshans crawling out from their bunks from behind a door.

From the looks of them, they expected to only see their own kin roughhousing. That’s exactly the same face expression my batchers made whenever one of us was noisy in the sleeping quarters after an exhausting training day.

I don’t give them time to correct their mistake.

Master Kalibi strictly forbade killing another sentient that’s not a direct threat to another, so we aim for the large lizards’ limbs. One shot still goes aside and hits the largest one on the neck, ending him instantly. The other two Trandoshans swear vengeance, and I leave it to them. With blasted elbows, leg bones and a shot in the lower abdomen, I don’t care what they wish for us. Konnek strips them from their weapons and some personal belongings, which causes further growling and threats from them. My younger brother is especially interested in civilian things like jewelry or data storing devices, but he has no luck this time, these three were warriors just like we are.

“Do you think we have time for that?”

“Do you think we will have time to come back later?”

Despite all their protests, he packs the two surviving lizards back into the room they should have been sleeping in, and advices them to put on their vacuum clothes if they have any. Then he slams the door shut, activates the lock with the datacard he found on the inside, and blasts the panel after all the pieces have locked into place.

“Good luck choking me with my own guts like you said, kelp-scale!”

With all the noise and waste of time, it’s no surprise the levels above and under us are both packed with droids and more Trandoshans. We have to climb out into the chilly rare atmosphere beyond the energy shield, and slip down to the lower levels from there. Luckily our perfectly isolated vacuum gear doesn’t give away our body heat which the reptiloids would see in infrared.

We leave them behind and re-join ‘71 and Master Kalibi.

“Any change in the plan, so far?”

My sarcasm ricochets off her. Of course, there was no plan to begin with.

“Is it true that Trandoshans can survive in vacuum?” Konnek asks. “They are quite underdressed for a base that can lose air like this one.”

“Temporarily, yes” Kalibi replies. “I’ve never seen one of their kind to wear full-body spacesuit.”

“But let’s just ask them!” I interrupt. My Armat gives a longer explanation, as I open fire on the newest arrivals.

I chase them back into a corridor. Geel is somewhere behind me, Konnek’s gone in some other direction, I haven’t seen Lohol for hours.

I haven’t seen any Quarrens, either. Nor any of the famed MagnaGuard type battledroids. Perhaps our entire mindless mission was for nothing? We’re doing commando jobs? Not that I’d be complaining about a possible promotion, or about an even more possible shot in the head, but...

Fierfek. That headshot just became immediate reality.

A tall Trandoshan lands right in front of me from the ceiling. He tears the Armat from my hands, I try to shoot him but I’m late. My weapon is thrown into a corner, his carbine is pointed directly at my nose.

“Saai that aaaagain.” He has a horrible accent.

I take a step back in a vain attempt to keep some distance between us.

“Aren’t you mistaking me for my younger brother, sir? Konnek is the one throwing misguided insults all the time.” I really need to take care of my equipment, if he would shoot a hatch into it, I wouldn’t make it even if the mission is successful.

“Youuuu’rrr the saaaame!”

There’s no arguing that statement, to be honest. We are clones. Different batch, perhaps even a different DNA sample, but we’re clones of the same person with the exact same modifications: double aging and added obedience.

I stand here, alone. I still have the GEMP, but if I used it now, I would blow the entire mission. A backhand vibroblade would not do against the Trandoshan’s thick scales. No other weapons, only the Force around us. It binds us, it penetrates us, it’s present between me and the carbine pointed at my head.

I take a deep breath. I need to know the carbine. It’s the focus, not the will, Litne told me several times. We clones might not even have our own will, we were raised not to have.

I close my eyes behind the visor. I don’t exactly need to see the bulky carbine, I just focus on what’s inside, I feel through the firing mechanism, the cartige of liquid tibanna, the thin tube that’s bent at an odd angle, and the three long and two shorter wires that provide for heating up the tiny droplets.

I focus on the material of the tibanna tube, I tell the Force that it’s bent more than what the tube can withstand and its thin wall is breaking right now. I live in the present. I exist. The tube exists. The Force exists. Nobody else matters.

“Aaaapologaaaaise!”

I start running towards my Armat, I pick it up and blast the Trandoshan before he would even notice his carbine’s malfunction. Only when he collapses on the floor do I realize what I have done.

I broke the tube. It worked. It worked! I’m no longer just one of the three million clones deployed to war right now, I have used the Force and it saved my life! Who would have thought.

But even professional Force-users get killed in battle. I have seen that when our LAAT/i flew over the arena on Geonosis: it was littered with Jedi corpses. The memory sobers me before I would get my hopes any higher.

I move to what intel marked as an outside research platform. Just a few turns from here, and I can already see it: about three levels under me, there’s a large cylindrical construct, and there are quarrens around it. What could that be? Some parts resemble an ion cannon. By why would the Separatists build a weapon that can do more harm to their own fleet if it ever got into Republic hands, than what damage it can cause to our ships?

There. I start asking questions like Konnek.

And there are the two Magnas all right, standing between the construct and our six-limbed Jedi! I get perfect visual of the humanoid-shaped droids. Their sticks that glow on both ends make no sense to me, their pale gray capes make even less sense. Master Kalibi is jumping from wall support to research tools and back between them, as if she were to slice up the cannon-like construct the droids are guarding. I reach for my GEMP. Here’s my opportunity.

I spin around in the last second to see a lone dwarf spider droid climb behind me. I grab my Armat with both hands and I open fire, blasting it to pieces with all my hatred and bitterness of that last time I’ve seen this type.

And in doing so, I drop the GEMP. It lands, still inactive, on the ground of the research area.

Scrap. Shooting the droid to pieces saves my life for the oncoming few seconds, but I need to retrieve the GEMP and I’m sure the Force won’t help me in that. To break a fragile tube is one thing, but lifting an entire bomb is... it’s just something else.

I check the Armat’s power level. This energy cell still has about a dozen shots in it, but now I have the precious time to change it. It only takes a few moments, but it feels much longer. I’m defenseless until the new energy cell clicks into its place. I hear droidekas rolling my way, and I get the impression they’re just trying to drive my attention from something else. Like, yet another Trandoshan trying to sneak up behind me?

I glance down, only to see Master Kalibi miserably cornered by the two droids. So their sticks’ metal resists a lightsabre’s blade! Granted, Kalibi’s weapon has a different mode for upholding one steady and strong blade instead of the six weaker ones, but it still feels out of place. These massive droids were built to smash a Jedi! I also remember how quickly our xexto can wear herself out, her species is only suited for quick escapes, not for several minutes of close-contact fighting.

Is that my worry for her, or am I just mirroring how Geel is feeling right now?

But then I also spot our missing Lohol sneaking behind the quarrens’ backs. With one swift move, he swings the other GEMP right between those engaged in scrimmage. One MagnaGuard takes note and moves its leg to kick it away.

And then, suddenly, everything goes dark. And quiet. Very, very quiet.

All I can sense is burning pain in my left wrist. First I suppose the approaching Trandoshan got me and cut my hand with a vibroblade, but in a matter of moments the pain dulls. I can feel and move my fingers. The hermetic gear is intact. Belated do I realize (of course I should have thought about it before) that the gigant electromagnetic pulse burnt out not only the Separatist base and my helmet’s electronics, but also the identifier implant I was created with.

I feel the cold winds on my armor as the artificially captured atmosphere blows some dust from the ground, before it would get entirely sucked out into space. My helmet, my entire helmet with the speakers and the visor, died quietly. I see nothing. I hear nothing. With a deep breath, I activate the manually controlled air supplies. The armor goes cold in a matter of minutes.

I want to throw away the helmet, so that I could at least see the darkened Separatist base and the cold blue stars above us, but that would be suicide. I prepare the vibroblades on the back of my hands in case a Trandoshan would foolishly choose to fight instead of running. They should know they’d freeze to death here, at least sooner than we would. I feel no tremor in the ground. No droids.

We did our part well, I decide. From now on, our survival lies solely in the Jedi’s hands. I don’t trust anyone with my life, as a gunner it is usually me who is trusted by everyone else.

Minutes pass, my armor is getting colder. Or could it be just seconds? I don’t even know how to find my way down there to my squad.

The identifier cools down, the pain in my wrist dulls. Whoever finds us won’t even know our factory numbers, I realize. Maybe that’s why Konnek thinks dying like a hero is stupid? We won’t be identified. Just a squadful of clones. The surviving Trandoshans won’t care about identifying us before they would improvize emergency rations out of my raw flesh.

But then, I sense Litne coming. She enters the nonexistent atmosphere, and all of a sudden I know which way to take to get back to her.

In just two more minutes I’m close enough to hear what she is saying, despite the supposed airless space between us. She’s talking to clones, new brothers, a small team I’ve never met before and most likely I never will. A commando squad, still exhausted from their previous mission, but they have taken this new one because somebody had to. And even the commandos, like us, are bound by the genes we share.

I wonder how I might look to them. Not only a lower-value trooper, but I cannot even see them at the moment. I’ve hit my head in the open door on my way back here.

Litne greets me with a friendly pat, then turns back to the newcomers. I try not to look disappointed or jealous at the commando I cannot even see or hear.

“So just don’t forget, you’ll have to make the entire scene look like it was your squad’s work. Take all the glory, the prisoners, the base, whatever you can scavenge from the data storages. We only need two droids of our choice, everything else is yours.”

“You will still have problems with the Trandoshans” I add. I have no idea how much of that was heard without the built-in mic and speakers. “There are still several in the living area.”

“Well, you heard Geith. Go and have fun, Bry! Good luck analyzing the new weapon, Ennen!”

 


	4. Clone cameo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the guest appearance of an ARC-trooper. He belongs to whoever owns Lucasfilm at the moment, and only couchsurfed with me for one night. Hopefully we’ll see him again, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest appearance

At least the Seps won’t get the little beasts, I keep reminding myself. Not the happiest thought to go down with....

Thunderstorm roars in the distance, and my dry throat itches at the thought of just a few drops of water. Stuck between empty cages and under fallen laboratory equipment, I wonder how long before we would die of thirst...

My so-called brother moans weekly. He’s the last of the Missile squad, a three-members strike team that was sent to sabotage the Techno Union’s research of creating cyborg ranats. Those little pests are wise enough to coordinate synchronized attacks, and they can dig or chew themselves through anything – and apparently, someone in the Techno Union underestimated their ability to open a cage from the inside. By the time I had arrived here on  Tekkin (after two days of hearing nothing from the commando) the former laboratory was mostly destroyed by its inmates, and the only survivor, RC-1061, had been trapped under a fallen stasis pod.

I wiped them out. I wiped out those few Separatist droid-builders that survived the Missile’s attack and the ranats’ rampage. I eradicated the rodents that were feeding on the two fallen clones. I wasted no time destroying the research logs, and I made sure to set a computer virus that burns out the databanks to which the local registry was sending its backup files. And the unused cyborg-implants will never become a weapon, not against my brothers or against anyone else. However, the explosions were one too many for the building that had already been undermined by the pests, and before I could have got RC-1061 out from under the pod, a short circuit started a chain reaction that eventually destroyed the construct. So here we both are, buried in the wreck.... listening to the distant thunder roar, the only familiar thing on this damned planet.... Its type II atmosphere that has been seeping under my ruptured helmet has been burning my lungs for two days already.... and with the lab’s communication and electricity down, there’s no hope that any rescue team would find us among the large rocks. But we completed the mission. No other clone will die because of fully armed ranats. They won’t share our mortifying death.

Thirst should not break an Alpha-class ARC trooper. Loss of hope shouldn’t. Hearing a brother’s labored breathing shouldn’t, not as long as he is alive and I have to be the older vod to look up to. After he dies: who will care then?

RC-1061, or Tee-On as he calls himself, got stuck in the laboratory after Missile’s initial mission distorted into a three-way massacre between their squad, the TU researchers, and the cyborg ranats that broke free. I was about to extract him when the building went.

I catch a white flash of lightning in the distance. Alas, I see no clouds. It must be a dry storm... it won’t even offer the little reprieve I was hoping for. I don’t have the heart to lie about it to RC-1061, so I remain silent. Once more I try to push the fallen communication block off me, but it’s too heavy and flat. I could only grab it from the other side.

“We will make it, I know” RC-1061 whispers, and I wonder if he intended those to be his last words.

The roar intensifies, and I pick up a new sound in it. Shuttle engines? My broken helmet’s faintly flashing display indicates an incoming ship with two life signals on it. It’s not a type the Republic uses. But not what the Confederacy owns either, and it doesn’t look like a cargo ship that would belong to smugglers. And while it’s properly armed, it doesn’t give the impression of a pirate vessel. So what could it be? Slavers?

“It’s heading our way.”

“I see it. Nothing the GAR uses, so whoever’s on board, don’t trust them.”

“No need to be told, Mr. Jango-trained!” my brother hisses back.

The ship lands just next to the former staff canteen, and I struggle to sit up and see who found us. I’m left with no idea of their allegiances.

One of them is a Dathomirian, tan skin under galore black tattoos and a hunter’s gear. Her impressive boots catch my attention. The other? I have no idea. The neck and head resemble a Kaminoan, only, instead of the elegant long body this creature has a tangle of altogether six limbs. Both of them are wearing green robes and tiny breathing filters.

I’m the Dathomirian’s first choice, she grabs the communicator block and lifts it just enough for me to crawl out. She hands me a flask and goes to assist the smaller one in digging RC-1061 out.

I don’t hesitate. What poison could be in a flask of liquid they wouldn’t be able to inject if they chose to? I take a last breath through the broken helmet’s filter, and put the buy’ce down. Cool water soothes my burning throat, but with great effort, I stop after gulping down half of the bottle’s content. Despite what regular troops would say, they ARE my brothers and I won’t cheat ‘61 from his share of the water.

Supposing he’ll make it. The sudden lack of his heavy breathing is alarming, even when I see the two newcomers supporting him to the Santhe ship.

There’s quite a list of upsetting small details about them. Let’s just ignore the fact they knew exactly where we were, and the ship they got here with. That Dathomirian didn’t at all blink! And she had to be very strong to lift that block, a lot stronger than her appearance would suggest. And what was that long rod of metal on the other one’s back? It’s like five or six identical (or almost identical) data cylinders connected together, with some additional black pieces between them. Have I seen anything like that before? Something in the back of my mind says positive. So be it. But why didn’t they talk? There are commercially available breathing masks that have short-range radios in them. Why do they stick with the small, mouth-held variant that was out of date before I could even hold a gun?

“Is there anyone else here?” the taller one asks, spitting out her breathing filters for a moment.

“Only the dead.”

I notice some smear between her black and tan skin areas. As she helps me inside the ship (“Mynock’s Wing” the side painting reads) I get more and more the feeling I am being deceived. I would be blind not to notice her quite appealing shape, pretty eyes, impressive face, piece-of-art feminine body. And her lack of blinking. But the more I’m looking for other signs of her being an android, the more she appears to be alive. The changing rhythm of her breathing, its tiny sounds magnified by the mask. The sweat forming pearl-like small drops on her skin, washing some of the black paint from her face. I wonder if the small horns are fake too, but they seem to be genuine. Why would a real zabrak wear paint instead of tattoos? Those are there to identify them, by tribe and sometimes by family, just like we are identified by the chips in our left wrists.

Unless she chose to hide her affiliations. Or maybe she doesn’t have any. Or possibly she didn’t get tattoos so that she can fake any allegiance and identity easier? All I know about her is screaming DON’T TRUST.

She guides me to an empty room that must have had several inhabitants just a very short time ago. Even their personal belongings are around, neatly folded blankets here, a standard GAR shaver there.... and a disassembled wreck that might have been a droideka in its life. I stumble to the nearest tap and drink, only keeping an eye on the Dathomirian just in case she would use the moment for her advantage. But no, she leaves with an alarmingly satisfied look on her black –and-tan face. I cough a little, which she doesn’t react to.

The door falls to its place between us. The ship’s internal ventilation kicks in, filtering the toxic gases from the air. At last, we’re leaving Tekkin. At last, I’m not that miserably out of options anymore. My lungs hurt with every breath I take, I must have been exposed to the gases of that world for too long, but now I have a task at hand and so I focus on the more important thing.

I was separated from my brother, my charge, and my mind is immediately listing the worst case scenarios. Interrogation; torture for information. How long does a regular commando last? Can I do anything for him? If only we haven’t left my blasters on the surface...

Yes, I can. I drop to the bed nearest to the droideka wreck and see if I can find any weapons left in it.

Apparently, it was disassembled by a professional. Perhaps with the toolset I found next to it? I spot numbers etched into the box’s inner surface: 1833/71.

Acceleration pushes me against the hind wall as the Mynock’s Wing enters hyperspace.

To sum it up: I have no idea whose ship I’m on, I’m locked in, they have my brother. I’m weakened by starvation and the gas must have damaged my lungs. But I’m not unarmed. In addition to my almost complete ARC gear, I have the tools from the repair set, and I can use some droideka-pieces as weapon too. To start with, I take the welder and get to patching up my buy’ce.... I might need the hermetical seals if I end up in vacuum before the end of this journey.

I know it’s selfish. I’m bothering with my escape plans while RC-1061 is in need. If his squad were alive, they would be tearing down the door to get to him. Well, I’m not his squad! I’m the one General Zey sent to retrieve his squad.... or what’s left of it. Am I still endangering the mission? My business. The android and the whatever won’t kill the Missile squad survivor in these few minutes, and he won’t be broken that fast, either. Besides, I finish with the repairs in record time. Waiting for the welds to cool down, I sink the toolbox into the utility belt, and pick up the more useful-looking parts of the droideka. Its back strut looks like a makeshift club from this angle...

As I move to the locked door with the helmet in one hand and a curvy piece of alloy in the other, I notice a punching-mat on the wall. Its outer texture seems almost new, but the filling already displays marks of intense use. Curiously, I throw one lead jab, then one roundhouse kick. My assumption was correct: whoever used the punching-mat before me, was of the exact same size as I am. We hit at exactly the same height.

I take a quick look at the wardrobe on the other side, but all I find are civilian clothes. The only place where one could hide weapons is filled with some disks of preserved dry food. They look like some sort of crisp bisquit, and I try one: it’s mildly sweet, very fruity, with an intense aftertaste. I suppose I would love it if I weren’t trapped on a possibly hostile ship at the moment. I save a fistful of them to the empty pocket of cubed food rations.

In the next moment, a fit of cough catches me unprepared. During which, I stumble into the door’s sensor range and it opens for me swiftly. I quickly put the helmet on, to at least silence my uncontrolled noise-making. So much about stealth, for now.

Thankfully, the HUD activates, so I blinking-fast call up the menu and read what the database has about the six-limbs not-a-bug. Xexto, it is called. Sentient with very good reflexes and various capability for telepathy. Despite they normally walk on the lowest pair of limbs, they are clever with all six. As for their personality, the warning says you only question their courage if you want to die. Otherwise, they are mostly harmless.

As for the humanoid, the sensors picked up enough proof that she’s actually a live person who simply never blinks, which is a noted fact for the Iridonian subspecies of the zabrak. Predator with fierce hunting instincts and noticable tolerance of pain. Any hair growth on the body comes from hybridization with humans. She did have a braid around her horns if I remember correctly, and eyelashes around her left eye.

I have no idea what brought these two very different females together, but their alliance seems to be based on complementing each other’s attributes. That’s the opposite of how we clones join forces to magnify the traits we share.

I decide against carrying the droideka strut to the interrogation scene. The piece of droid armor would be too clumsy against the duo. If they are working RC-1061, then it must be the xexto paying more attention to the prisoner and the zabrak must be the one standing guard. I will need to aim my vibroblades at her cervical blood vessels. And let us not forget about the tools 1833/71 left behind.

Fierfek, I feel weak.

My preparation for the attack on the interrogation room ends with yet another coughing just when I would besiege its door. It opens just like the dormitory did, and I come to suspect it is actually programmed to react to respiratory malfunctions.

“Yet another patient” I recognize the sound of an IM-6 droid before I would spot it by 1061’s side, just behind the zabrak.

“Bother with this one, Scrap” the xexto commands it before she would turn to me. “Your brother has three broken ribs, and after the tirade Arl gave me last time, I think we’ll just have to operate on board. Don’t worry, Litne is a lot more skilled a healer than what the droid will ever be.”

Now _that_ ceases my coughing immediately. My respiration, actually.

I step closer to find the commando sitting half reclined. The white pieces of armor had been removed from his upper body, there’s an infusion set above his far shoulder... and when he sees me, he lifts his free hand to give an ‘all right’ signal. The zabrak, referred to as Litne, still hides most of him from me.

The droid tells something, I don’t understand the language, but the xexto immediately replies by pointing the long cylindrical metal to the docbot’s core.

“Quit your excuses and do your work.”

I have never seen a robot display this much hatred towards its owner by just turning the visor towards her. Yes, there are known algorhythms that act as equivalents of various emotions, and not all are intentional or replicable, but I guess I missed some crucial point of the partnership of this trio.

Of what I can see, the IM-6 (standard medical unit in the Grand Army of the Republic) already prepared the isolation and started sterilizing the bruised skin above the surgery area.

“If you want to stay in here” the xexto starts “then get yourself some drink first.”

What? I’m not leaving my brother alone with two strangers! Lucky for them they don’t seem to be interrogating him, but there are plenty other horrible things they could do to a wounded warrior.

“There are a few boxes of fruit juice in the upper storage box in the spire room” the one named Litne says. “Left here, straight down the corridor, you’ll find the ladder to the spire. Bring at least two of those for your brother as well.”

“Go” the xexto concurs. “You won’t be helping him any bit if we have to wash you up from the floor as well.”

Like I would need more help than throwing the comm. device off me! I’m still sure they just want to lock me out. On the other hand, after three days, the promise of some energy-rich liquid is confusingly tempting. Even the water I just had feels like a distant memory.

“Want an IV?” the droid asks in an artificially kind tone.

“No” I hiss. One moment, and I’m on the move. After all, I still have the toolbox with me in case they would attempt to lock me out.

I don’t intend to waste time looking, but when I arrive to the spire room, the sight blows me away for a moment.

Clearly, this part of the Santhe ship is custom-built, and was added only a few months ago. It’s a wide observation platform constructed above the original top covering, with high enough ceiling that it can be used as a convenient training room. There are windows in all directions, I can see the mesmerizing spiral of hyperspace around me. I also notice the one-man gun stations around: just like the dormitory where I was (wasn’t) locked in, this part of the ship talks about a larger crew. Could it be a ship suited for two regular commando squads? That would suggest that the duo currently one floor under my feet might work for either General Zey or General Camas, but if so: why haven’t I heard of them yet? I should be the first to know about the creation of such strike team.

As for the indicated upper storage compartment: it’s literally stuffed with boxes of various fruit nectars, most of which I’ve never heard about. Raballa, goldfruit, quirash... After catching my breath, I grab as many random boxes as I can hold with one arm, and I hurry down the ladder. The buy’ce echoes my pained coughing. If I ever get back to Republic territory, I wonder what damage the medics will find in my airways. Clearly something is very wrong in there, I shouldn’t be out of breath like this.

Being weak is for the civilians, for the aruetiise. In the Grand Army, even the dying would hold out till their one last breath. That’s what we were bred to do.

The scene that welcomes me is one I least expected: the xexto holding the head of RC-1061 with both right-side arms, apparently keeping him in some sort of trance. The zabrak keeps one hand above the bloodshot chest, right where the stasis pod hit the trooper.

“Wait” she says, apparently, to the IM-6. The droid gives her an almost timid look, and doesn’t do anything for long seconds.

“Now it’s straight.” At that, the medical robot slides a long nail into my brother’s chest through a small incision. 1061 doesn’t resist the procedure, he only grabs one of the xexto’s free hands – good thing’s there are so many.

Litne stands up, leaving the medical droid to its work. The black paint is now smeared all over her head, it makes her intense-glowing orange eyes prominent. Wordlessly, she comes to me and picks up a box of juice, then throws it to the xexto who opens it and offers to the commando troop.

“That was fast.” The zabrak’s amber-like glance almost burns me.

“I’m a natural mazerunner.” Especially when a brother is on the surgical table of two strangers who knew where to look for a secret Techno Union laboratory.

“And you are an amazing brother” the xexto adds. “Sixty-one told me you kept up his hope, knowing we would arrive. Now, please, both of you drink one of these before we continue.”

Good idea. These are all factory-sealed, so unless they were poisoned that much in advance, any box of juice must be safe. That gives a wonderful sense of security despite the two aliens.

“Could we get through this first?” RC-1061 whispers, however.

“No, I need a break” Litne stands up. “ I need to wash this silly paint off. This was the first and last time I used boyy’lo concentrate.”

I only realize I was staring after her for too long when the xexto forcefully puts an open box of goldfruit extract into my hands.

“Get that bucket off, and drink already. You’re so much like Konnek, over-analizing everything. Give your own eyes a chance, and accept what you see!”

“Really, ner vod” RC-1061 adds. His voice is faint, but calm. “She’s right. Get that buy’ce off, and show your beautiful face, because she might have never seen anything like that before....”

“Di’kut.”

But if he’s joking around, that means he can’t be in a bad shape anymore. From his point, it’s reasonable to trust these strangers.... they just saved his life. We MIGHT be on the same side. However, I’m much less optimistic about their intentions. We’ve been created to fight, not to trust.

“So?” The xexto stares at me. “Ask away.”

First things first.

“Where are those troops who resided on this ship?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out as soon as we’re done with the first aid.”

“We don’t know anything” RC-1061 replies immediately. “And even if we would....”

“You wouldn’t talk, I’m aware. That is why I’m going to ask Arl.”

“And it won’t be a nice teatime talk” Litne arrives back, this time, without any fake identification painted on her. Her skin is plain tan without a dot of black tattoos. “Tee-On? Can we continue with the last rib? I swear to you, it won’t hurt more than the former two.”

’61 just grits his teeth, nods, and obediently turns so that the xexto can wrap her hands around him again. They take only a minute or so for the commando to fall back into the trance, and soon the IM-6 presses the nails in the last rib the zabrak had somehow repositioned without touching the wounds.

Then it clicks. General Zey told me about the four Jedi Service Corps, organizations where non-Jedi Force sensitive people do their own for the Republic. EduCorps, AgriCorps, ExplorCorps... and MediCorps.

But no, that still doesn’t explain what those other clones had been doing here, nor does it give a hint at the disassembled droideka’s past.

The doc droid fixes the last intramedullar nail, then closes the small wounds with bacta patches. It comments in a language Litne apparently understands, and only receives a quiet harrumph for reply. The wounded trooper downs the last drops of his raballa juice, and reaches for a new one. He seems completely conscious to me, still shaky a bit, but breathing quietly and not in pain anymore. Whatever Force-trick I witnessed, it worked for the commando’s benefit. The xexto removes the needle from his arm vein, and puts a proper bandage on the small wound. The droid noticeably avoids eye contact with her.

“I have seen a few extreme-environment surgeries, but this was the most elegant” I tell the Iridonian.

“Thank you” she replies. “What’s your name, clone?”

“I’m Captain A-26” I tell. “Alpha-twenty-six. And that’s all I am allowed to reveal.”

They both keep looking at me, as if expecting some nickname to be added. I know most of the Cuy’val Dar named the commandos they trained, but Jango considered that an unnecessary fancy. My designation is A-26, without overcomplication.

“Let the I-Am-Scrap examine you” the xexto asks. “Your respiration, if nothing else. How long have you been exposed to Tekkin’s gases?”

“Restricted information” I reply. I prefer to keep any detail of my missions and my health to myself. But regardless, I don’t stab the docbot with the vibroblade when it levitates closer to scan my condition. And even though I don’t want to give anything away, my armor’s built-in sensors pass the information to the droid with a single beep. Army niceties. I will need to figure out some personal settings when I get the new helmet.

I brace myself for the results.

The IM-6 construct takes only a moment before loudly announcing that only thirty-eight percent of my total lung capacity remained. That means I will stay alive, but I’m crippled for a long time. My sigh ends in a fit of coughing again. Hopefully my respiration will get better with training and time, but I fear I will never be suitable for a one-man mission ever again.

An ARC can’t afford to break down, Jango told us. I try to focus on finding a solution. Certainly, once I make it back to Coruscant, the medical team will see how much of my breathing surface can be replaced. General Zey is good at getting what he wants, and I’m sure he won’t turn his back on me.

The ship beeps twice, indicating we’re about to exit hyperspace. The two strangers don’t move to the cockpit, however.

The droid hands me an inhalation spray, and I eagerly take the first three doses. When the droid tells me to breathe in the flask’s contents within an hour, I take two more. It stings, but that’s what bacta is supposed to do.

The hyperspace exit goes smoothly, so much smoothly I suspect we arrived in the heart of deep space: a convenient spot near a trade route, with no gravity or space object for the Mynock’s Wing to interact with.

“I think it’s time I contact Arl” The xexto carefully lets go of ’61, and opens a box of juice for herself. “Mazerunner, please help your brother to the clones’ room.

Whoever that Arl might be, I definitely want to be here for the discussion. So I take RC-1061’s arm on his uninjured side, and help him to one of the empty beds as fast as I can. He insists that his legs are intact and he is able to walk, but he had just been through an unorthodox surgery so he had better take a rest and be ready to fight if that would be needed.

“Sleep it off, vod’ika.” A part of me wishes I could do the same, but I still need know what these strangers are planning to do with us. I don’t trust them.

I deeply inhale from the small flask before I put my helmet back. I do my best to hide my weakness, and besides: sneaking up to overhear a discussion does not start with a series of coughs. The display indicates it picked up no transmissions so far. As I approach the cockpit, I see Litne’s heat-shape behind a half-open door, and I silently slip closer so that I would hear her without showing myself. The xexto seems to be sitting on the floor in the middle, about six meters from the entrance.

“Come in! It’s nice to have you back so soon.”

So much about sneaking behind a telepath in her home territory. When I let out a single cough, they point me to a chair right next to the xexto for me to sit down. In doing so, I take note of the surroundings in evaluation of the proper way of taking these two down if necessary. The pilot’s empty seat is ten strides away, the ship is currently in standby mode. At least one of the females is an adept Force-user, so I will only have one chance to act, if at all. I remove the buy’ce and brace for whatever would be coming. There’s one last box of juice, and I open it without hesitation. It feels like my body is slowly returning to life with proper rehydration. I stare into the blank space through the distant transparsteel.

“Arl already knows we’re off Tekkin, and I think he’s aware I’m not in the mood for niceties” the xexto informs me, and activates a pre-set communication dial. “Whatever I will be saying, A-26, you should know I’m dead serious about it.”

I cannot help a few coughs, so I inhale from the bacta flask again. The xexto waits for me to finish before she would put us through. Quite polite, apart from not addressing me as captain. I might even relax a little.

“I hope you have a good day, Arligan. Our hostage drama seems to continue.”

The hologram activates, revealing the Jedi this xexto referred to as ‘Arl’. I would jump up, I would grab the xexto by the neck, I would scoop the zabrak’s eyes out... But I cannot move! My struggle to stand up ends with an inglorious fit of coughing, while I’m only capable of moving my head.

“You might have had a theoretical lesson on fighting Force-users” Litne whispers to me with an almost friendly smile, “But I spent almost an hour every day training alone against seven of your vode. If you think you are quicker than Itket or trickier than Lohol or more determined than Geith, I’m sorry to shatter your illusions.”

It’s futile, I get it. The accursed Force-user is keeping the armor panels in place with her telekinetic powers, and I cannot move an inch as long as I’m inside.

So this is where the clash of wills begins. The two rescuers are on one side, on the other.... it’s a troubled General Zey.

“Good day to the unruly ones. 26, I’m relieved at least you made it out alive! It’s reassuring to see you safe. What’s your opinion of the rescue duo, so far?”

“General, they are rather strange, sir.” What does he expect me to say, when he apparently knows at least ten times as much about them as I do? “The Techno Union’s laboratory on Tekkin, along with the staff, the scientific material and the experiments themselves, have been wiped out. Only RC-1061 remained alive of the Missile squad, his injuries are serious, but no longer life threatening.” I would continue, but my damaged lungs get the better of me.

I catch the hologram of General Zey give the xexto a curious look.

“I didn’t want to tell you about Tee-On until he gets some proper rest” she replies to the unspoken question. “But while we’re at it, this amazing mazerunner has a very good question: where are the seven clones who should be here with me?”

My general takes one more blink at me, I see both relief and regret on his face. Apparently, he anticipated me to become the two strangers’ hostage, and he knew I won’t be able to escape on my own.

“That question is only going to be answered if the High Council decides so. You are far too attached to them for your own sake.”

“I will be the judge of that!”

“You’re making yourself vulnerable with such a strong bond. Just two days ago, you marched off the chart, deployed an unauthorized electromagnetic weapon...”

“On an uncivilized world where the only mechanisms effected were the Separatist’s droids and some research tools!”

“...then you stole two prototype CIS battle droids right from the field, and sold them for so-called civilian purposes...”

“Because the Republic was going to use them for solving the mystery of the side-changing Padawan braids?!”

I blink at the xexto. Looks like somebody has already lost her temper.... My general calmly continues.

“...on a planet that does not even belong to the Republic. You did so because you indebted yourself, and thus the entire Jedi Order, to a family of questionable allegiance, and all this, to save the life of ONE infantry clonetrooper. You would jeopardize the Order, no, the Republic if you keep going like that!”

So that is it. Jedi infights of the worst. Apparently I was cut from the news for a few eventful days.

“Arligan, look around, the Republic is at war with itself, what more could be done to jeopardize it? Would you rather if I went rouge like Quinlan or Sora?!”

And they say we ARCs have a bad temper.

“I would rather if you heeded the warnings of the Council for once! Kalibi, please. Just accept the wisdom of those ranking higher than you.”

Until this moment, Litne was staring with unblinking open eyes, but a closed mouth. At this point, the xexto seems to falter, but the zabrak carries on without missing a beat. Perfect teamwork, just like how warriors are supposed to act in battle.

“If she would have accepted the higher wisdom, I would have been exiled to the Unknown Regions for my hunting habits.”

The xexto continues from here and backs up her verbal counterattack.

“And later Master Windu himself had admitted she would have been a wasted talent. Do you remember, Arl?”

The two females have each other’s back, while keeping General Zey under constant pressure. My unintentional coughing comes in handy as a distraction. When I finish, Litne stares into General Zey’s eyes like a jai’galaar.

“For your information, Master Zey, I value the stolen clones more than I respect the entire dull-minded dozen of bantha herders, who are busy kissing the aft of the Senate.”

“That behavior is anything but acceptable, Padawan Litne Zorrind” General Zey scolds her.

“Then don’t make me continue so” Litne hisses back, and gives a questioning look when the xexto puts a soothing hand on her shoulder.

“We’re at war, Litne. Real skill lies in remaining civil. Okay?”

Now that can be heard as a call for strategic retreat.

Before the zabrak would nod, the six-limbed one turns to me. “Do you agree that a well-trained trooper is a bit like a finely built weapon?”

“We are finely built weapons” is my reply. Jango always told us to be proud of what we were, and that our actions should always support our pride.

“And how would you react if I took your entire gear, with helmet and deece included, sold it on the black market somewhere on Nal Hutta, then handed you the complete price in Republic credits and told you this was done for your own good?”

Trap. This has become a verbal battlefield and she’s using me against my own general.

“I’m not authorized to answer.” Honestly? I may not be the one to punch a nikto in the face for calling my kama a skirt (A-77 has that incident on his record) but I would probably tear apart anyone trying to sell it.

“Let us handle this like a standard hostage situation” Litne suggests. “One skilled ARC and a commando survivor for seven no-ranking clones. That is a generous offer on our side.”

No, that is humiliating. And unacceptable.

I feel slight pressure on the upper armor: a warning not to interfere and turn against my captors. I would need them to be properly distracted before I could make my move, literally. I know that alone I wouldn’t stand a chance against two renegate Jedi, but they need me alive so there’s no risk in trying. All I really need is one single opportunity.

General Zey looks at me, and I’m sure he knows I can’t even move. He’s angry a bit, but far from worried.

“Don’t make me laugh, you two would never harm a clone.” His words echo my own observation.

“That’s true” the small, six-limbs beast nods. “But do you think I wouldn’t find other jobs in which a strong, independent, courageous and enduring human male would excel at? Or do you think Litne cannot find primitive worlds on which we could leave him? On starry nights, A-26 will look up in our direction, and wonder if the civil war is still raging several parsecs above his head. He might even get word of the outcome with only a decade delay, perhaps even less.”

For the first time, I see my general lose the high ground.

“You couldn’t...”

“Where are they?” It feels like the xexto’s words echo all around in the small spaceship. “Where is CT-1833/71 Geel, the one whose attention is so tight on me that he takes any request before I would say a word? The intuitive engineer currently working on a personal energy shield generator that would withstand infantry fire, made of source materials abundant on all current battlefields. Where is he?”

“Where is his batcher, CT-1833/73 Geith, trusty critic and creative talent? The one who spots weaknesses of friend and foe alike. Where is he?” Litne straightens up between me and the hologram, like a predator defending her prey from another.

“Not telling.”

The xexto turns to me, scrutinizing me with a pair of large purple eyes.

“I think he would make an amazing archeologist, like that famous Corellian who outran a fiberglass boulder in some abandoned forest temple....”

The Iridonian agrees with her.

“That’s pretty much what the ARCs are trained to do from the moment they could crawl. Or so I have heard.”

Fierfek, she is right. We did pass several booby-trapped ancient building simulations when we were young, and I’m eager to solve mysteries.

“He would really earn a name with that.”

“I’m not leaving the Republic!” I protest.

“Unfortunately, that decision’s more up to Arligan at the moment” the xexto reminds me. “Arl! This trooper doesn’t want to be left behind. How about a swap?”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Quite a popular method in a war I did not initiate. Arligan! Where are they? Where is CT-2261/986 Lohol, my buoyant herald? The quiet hero to slip past enemy lines, and always find the spot where he is needed most. Where is he?”

“Guess what, I think Tee-On could make an insane fortune as a trick actor on any planet where the local holofilms are popular, once his ribs heal. If I kept to be exposed to pain and injuries for nothing, I would at least expect some recompense after a while. He would deserve it.” Litne makes a deceivingly innocent face. I have yet to see her blink.

“That’s not what ’61 will want!” Or at least, I hope he wouldn’t be tempted by fame and wealth. True, the way the Republic disregards us is more dejecting than some would like to admit.

“Unfortunately, this is not about what the two of you would want.” The zabrak looks at me with her smouldering orange eyes. “More like, what Master Zey will allow to happen; we’re just offering you choices. You get to choose what to do with your time in exile.”

I desperately shake my head. I don’t want free time, I want to do what I was created for! I want to get back to Coruscant and have my lungs cured! I want to see my brothers again. And ’61 certainly wants to participate in real fights for the Republic, not in pre-decided matches that would only entertain aruetiise.

“He doesn’t like this one” the xexto voices.

“No” the zabrak agrees.

“I hope you know you’re speaking nonsense” General Arligan Zey calmly points out. “Clones are not meant for civilian lives. They just could not handle it. They could never fit in normal society.”

He’s right. We’re too unlike civilians. Our prime clone was not civilian, he was a soldier, a gun-for-hire and a dangerous element like we are. If anything, I could be a bounty hunter like he was. That’s the entire point of cloning.

I catch myself playing with the idea of what I would choose if I ever led a life outside the army. But that’s a turn of events only the Seps would prefer, so I quickly drop it. I’m stronger than to become what the enemy wants me to be. Even if it would have its advantages. I won’t become a traitor, not even if everybody around me would.

“Where are our 4405 triplets?” asks Litne. “Where is CT-4405/77 Itket, fire himself, the clone whose soul is so radically different from any of his brothers? The reckless Itket, with the spirit of destruction.”

“For easy recognition, he is the one who can’t sleep in a normal bed” the xexto adds. “I’ve seen all my clones roll and tumble in their sleep, but Itket would crawl out as soon as his conscious control is down, and settle across a sill. I had to recalibrate the doors for him.”

So that’s the explanation of the opening doors. A sleepwalking clone who only finds rest when he’s in the way, cute.

“Do you think that once he uncovers his own true strength, he will remain in the service of anyone who thinks to possess him?” Litne stares with unblinking eyes. “Where is he?”

“Where is CT-4405/80 Roquewon, the reliable and strenuous? His nickname is Sir Stability for a reason. If you gave him a boring task just because he can handle the monotony, you have my eternal spurn for abusing him.”

“Besides, he was not even cleared for service yet. He was only with us because the doctors trusted we would take care of him. He’s not ready to fight, even though he wouldn’t stay put and watch his brothers be thrown to any enemy as rancor fodder. Where is he?”

“Where is CT-4405/83 KirretRor, the tenacious guard? He has a unique habit of shouting a krayt’s howl at the end of each successful operation. That’s his way of celebrating an accomplished mission, and until you hear the dragon’s roar, you should be ready for yet another attack even if you see or sense no enemy around.”

“He had my back on Thila when a group of hunters blocked us in a valley populated with ysalamiri” the zabrak adds.

“Which reminds me” the xexto interrupts. “Did you investigate the place? Does the Order know how the ysalamiri came to inhabit a forest so far from their home planet in the Inner Rim?”

“We don’t have the resources for scientific research at the moment, Kalibi. We’re at war!”

“That’s exactly why such knowledge would be essential!”

I take a mental note to look up why she considers it so important to find out how a species I have never heard about had conquered a world they’re not native to. It is pretty much what any space-travelling sentients tend to do. What would make their presence on Thila special?

“So where is Stone Dragon?” Litne returns to her original question. “Master Arligan, please. If you are so obsessed with the war, then why not let our clones live up to their full potential?”

“Because what you’re doing could end with more harm than good.” I agree with his judgement. These two are, Force-users or not, a possible threat to the Republic. They’re holding me hostage, for one. As I struggle against the invisible bonds, my lungs start to feel as if they were burning again. I attempt to get the medication, but of course my arms are pinned down as well.

“Fine” The one he addressed as Kalibi swings her long neck a little. I think that’s her version of a shrug. “You keep doing what’s not more harm than good, and I will take the ARC to an off-chart planet where the winds will help his respiration until the lung surfaces heal. He needs an extended rest anyway, and you don’t seem to mind him until he’s back to top form. I happen to be friends with some breeders in racing-lizard husbandry, they will be happy to employ the mazerunner if you don’t wish for his services.”

My heart sinks. Could she be right? After all, she wants to exchange me for a small shipful of regular troopers, and General Zey appears to think I’m not worth that much anymore. I am an Alpha-class Advanced Recon Commando, with enough experience to oversee missions even if I cannot take part in them for now! Or maybe I could be assigned to training the younger units on Kamino, like A-17 opted to do. I definitely don’t want to leave the Grand Army. I may have considered something like that, yes, I may have, when we heard how A-02 got away and started a life on his own. But definitely not like this! I won’t be kidnapped from the Republic to be tossed on an Outer Space rock with lizards as my sole company. I’m a warrior!

“Once you get to know them, you’ll like the thrill of racing” the xexto reassures. “You would become a great jockey.”

“No he won’t!” General Zey protests. “He is a soldier and it is my duty to take care of him. You’re not taking him anywhere!”

That took him quite long to decide, although his words are still reassuring. He won’t abandon me....

“Then tell us where to find CT-8509/1701 Konnek, the clone apparently one in a million.” The xexto insists. “He is a real treasure, once you gain his trust, and that’s nothing to be done in the usual way. It would be a horrible loss if he were deployed carelessly.”

“Rest assured, your people are in good hands.” General Zey’s hologram looks defiantly in the xexto’s eyes. “But you are not getting them back. This blackmail is the very proof you can’t be trusted with those troops.”

The xexto’s frustration is palpable. I would be able to withstand a fit of fury from a regular interrogator, even a Force-user, but this duo leaves me confused and unsure of myself.

Eventually, she says a few lines in Huttese, of which I only catch rude words. General Zey doesn’t seem to mind what she was saying.

“Litne, please talk some sense into your master.”

“And into yourself” the xexto whispers.

Litne theatrically straightens up, and looks into the holo-sensor. “You are right, Master Zey. This discussion is getting nowhere. I’ll go and put in the coordinates for the planet with the lizards. Captain A-26, say your goodbye to Arligan because the system is too far from any civilized sectors so we might not get reception later.”

With that, she turns her back to all of us and strides to the pilot’s place. Her master continues her line of thought.

“And not even RC-1061 will be there to help build a transmitter, where we’re heading is far too primitive a world for his wounds to be treated properly. You will be the only clone there.”

“Will you get my brother back to the Republic?”

“As soon as we left that planet’s gravity, our next stop will be Coruscant. You have my word. I need to scream off the Council’s heads for taking Geel, Geith, Lohol, Itket, Roquewon, KirretRor and Konnek away.”

She’s ready to confront her superiors just to get her soldiers back. Of what I have seen, those troopers really matter to her. Some of the Cuy’val Dar tended to get this personal with their trainees. If there’s any similarity in attitude, she’s serious.

Time to say goodbye.

“It’s been an honor, General. I will get back to the Republic as soon as I get the chance.”

“Supposing, it doesn’t collapse when you’re not looking” the xexto murmurs. “I will be back for you when the war is over, I promise. If you will still wish to return with me then, I will not deny you the option.”

I sigh deeply, which ends with yet another coughing. On a backwards planet I will never get adequate treatment, I will never get back into active service.

“General. If I ever make it back to the Republic, I will seek you and return. You have my word.”

“Litne, put in the coordinates.”

“Already did, and we’re prepared to jump.” She steadies her hand on the hyperdrive’s handle. “Fasten your belts please.”

I cast one last look at the hologram of my superior. If the war doesn’t end soon....

“Ankus!” General Zey shouts moments before the xexto would end the transmission.

“Excuse me, Master Arligan?”

“The Separatists have an on-site foundry on Ankus. Senior General Kéler Ön Frájn requested to besiege it with the Eleventh Systems Army.”

Although my freedom of movement is back suddenly, the armor feels so heavy. I can’t believe General Zey had given out the requested information to get me back to service. Shall I say I’m honored? Or shall I point out he was broken like a weakling? But I know I can’t yet see through the entirety of these games of power.

But one day, I will.

For now, I steady myself against the new shift of hyperspace entry, and hope that General Zey made the wise decision.


End file.
